Keys
by EKWTSM9
Summary: Sometimes guilt isn't just for the survivors.
1. Chapter 1

**I write for my pleasure and to hone any existing skills I may have. The characters belong to someone else - I borrow them for my enjoyment. And thank their creators.**

"Dear god, how long have they been at it this morning? When the hell are they going for lunch?" Inspector Jack Elliott was perched on the corner of Steve Keller's desk, the user of which, on the phone, was trying to wave him quiet.

"Yes…okay, thanks…yeah, will do…thanks." Steve hung up. "They've just wrapped up and are getting ready to leave the room. And before you ask, nobody knows yet."

"Somebody has to know. With that many of them, they're going to need a reservation."

Steve chuckled. "Well, maybe after last year, they're wise to us and they're not going to let anybody know."

"What are you two talking about?" asked Assistant Inspector Ryan Taylor from a nearby desk.

Elliott grinned. "Oh yeah, you weren't here then." He glanced at Steve, who nodded.

"So you know that once a year, all the captains and lieutenants from all the departments get together for a day and just talk about… well, we're not really sure what they talk about, but they take an entire day to do it. They've been doing it for years.

"Anyway, last year Steve and I decided that we'd join them for lunch, which they always do en masse, and sorta try to …" His voice trailed off.

"Basically, to annoy the hell out of them," finished Steve with a laugh. "To be more specific, Mike and Charlie."

Elliott nodded in agreement. He and his partner Charlie Bidwell were Robbery Divisions equivalent of Mike and Steve, Bidwell being two years younger than Mike, Elliot a year older than Steve.

"Well, we found out where they were going for lunch, which wasn't hard actually – Mike just told me – and we went there ahead of them and got a table out of sight around a corner. And during their lunch, we kept sending drinks and appetizers over to their table. There were so many of them that they didn't notice, until it came time to leave and there was way too much uneaten food on the table and the bill was sky-high."

"Oh my god," laughed Taylor, "did they find out it was you?"

Elliott cleared his throat. "Well, not at first. Charlie was furious when he got into the office the next morning; he knew something fishy had gone on but he couldn't figure it out."

"Same with Mike; seems the Chief had heard about it and wanted to get to the bottom of it or else someone was going to have to pay for the extras on the bill, and you know how tight with a buck Mike can be sometimes…"

"Charlie too." Elliott looked at Steve. "Must be that generation."

"So how did they find out?"

Both Steve and Elliott did a slow take in the direction of Norm Haseejian, who had been pretending not to listen from his desk a few yards away. He looked up. "Hey, don't blame me – you guys didn't say it was a secret and all I did was mention that you too had taken off just before their lunch break was coming up. They're detectives; they figured it out!"

Taylor laughed again. "So what did they do?"

Steve and Elliott looked at each other and grinned. "Well…" Steve began but was cut off by his ringing phone. "Inspector Keller," he said into the receiver, then listened for several seconds. "Okay, thanks." He hung up and stood in the same movement.

"They're on their way. Let's get down the garage," he said to Elliott, snagging his jacket from the back of his chair and slipping it on.

Elliott stood up. "Will finish our tale of woe later, kid," he said to Taylor, "we have some partners to torment." And with a laugh, he and Steve were across the room and out the door.

# # # # #

"Hold the door!" came the commanding voice.

Charlie Bidwell put a hand out and the elevator doors reopened. The car was already full but Mike Stone stepped on anyway, pushing the others further in and the car doors closed once more, almost catching the back of his jacket. Realizing the hat is his hand was in danger of getting crushed, he snaked his arm up and put the hat on his head askew.

"Mike," whined a voice from the back, "the car is only supposed to hold ten – you're making it eleven." Everybody laughed.

"We're only going three floors. Are you really worried that it's going to fall? That's what I love about you, Roy – always up for adventure." Mike grinned at Devitt over the tops of everyone's heads and the others chuckled.

The elevator doors opened and Mike backed out, then fell into step beside Charlie and two others, Captain Derek Collins from Vice and Lieutenant Alan Donner from Missing Persons.

"So who's driving?" called Lieutenant John Yu from the back of the pack.

"I'll drive," said Bidwell, "I can take five in my car."

"We'll take mine too," chimed in Captain Bob Jeffries. "I just had it cleaned." There was knowing chuckle from the group; Jeffries worked Vice and their cars were notorious for being motorized petri dishes for human detritus.

"I'll wait for the next group," said Devitt but stayed with this bunch as they walked between the rows of cars to their vehicles.

"Does anybody know where we're going?" asked Ron Callahan, a lieutenant from Robbery, with amusement.

"Don't ask me," replied Captain Dan Hollister, Vice, from the back of the group. "I thought Charlie was picking the restaurant this year."

Mike glanced over his shoulder, grinning. "Charlie? You've got to be kidding me! Have you seen what he eats for lunch? That bacterial culture-y thing that looks like curdled milk …"

"It's called yogurt, funny man," Bidwell retorted is his best 'hurt feelings' voice. "My wife has me on a diet. I don't like the stuff anymore than you do," he tried to explain over the laughter of his colleagues.

"A diet?" Mike turned sharply towards Bidwell, quickly looking his somewhat portly colleague up and down. "Well, you could stand to lose –"

"Oh, hush up," Bidwell said quickly, giving Mike a playful shove. Grinning and chuckling, Mike quickly caught his balance, then leaned back towards Bidwell to give him the elbow. Bidwell had reached into his jacket pocket for his car keys, and Mike's well-positioned nudge knocked the keys from his hand and they tumbled to the asphalt.

Feeling guilty, Mike quickly stooped to grab the keys. Suddenly, without warning, a deep, ear-splitting roar filled the air around them, it's volume magnified by the concrete walls of the parking garage. As though punched, someone nearby exhaled quickly with an "umph". As Mike's fingers closed around the keys, he instinctively looked up in the direction of the din.

He didn't hear the bullet that tore through his chest.


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks for the very positive feedback everyone - reviews, good or bad, are always welcome. We can only improve if we know we are going in the right direction!**

On their way down to the garage level, Steve and Jack Elliott had made it to the landing of the ground floor of the Bryant Street Police Headquarters building when the door to the lobby was suddenly slammed open and several uniformed officers charged into the stairwell, guns drawn. Steve and Elliott scrambled out of the way, as one of the cops yelled, "There's shooting in the parking garage!"

With a quick glance at each other, the young inspectors fell in behind the others, who were almost down to the parking level. As the group hesitated at the door, a uniformed sergeant, his firearm raised, finger on the trigger, turned quickly. "We don't know how many shooters there are; fan out and be careful. We've got people down. Watch out for crossfire."

Hearts pounding in their ears, Steve and Elliott managed a quick terrified look to each other as the door was opened and the officers moved quickly and quietly into the garage.

It was eerily quiet, and the unmistakable odour of gunpowder hung heavily in the air. Steve and Elliott stayed close together, revolvers at eye level, eyes and heads swivelling constantly as they moved with the others, as one unit, further into the nearest lane of cars.

From the opposite side of the garage, shouts could be heard – other cops closing in from that end. Moving deeper into the garage, nearer to where the unmarked cars were parked, they began to hear moans; one pain-filled voice called for help.

"Over here!" yelled someone from two lanes away, and Steve's group broke into a quick trot, still vigilant, guns up. As they came around the end car and into the lane, they heard someone say, "Oh my god, they've all been hit…"

In that instant, for Steve, everything began to move in slow motion. Breaking into a run, holstering his weapon, no longer concerned that he could become a target, his only goal now was to get to his partner. Halfway down the long line of cars he could see them - bodies on the ground.

Vaguely aware of the others alongside him, Steve frantically tried to locate the familiar fabric of his partners suit as he got closer. Someone was trying to sit up, others writhing in agony, still others frightening still. There was blood everywhere.

He heard Elliott yell, "Charlie!" and saw him quickly and carefully cross through the pile of bodies to his wounded partner, who was lying on his back, on top of someone's legs, both hands trying to stop the blood that was oozing from his belly.

That was when Steve saw him – Bidwell was lying on top of Mike, who was facedown, unmoving. Elliott was raising Bidwell into his arms and off of Mike when Steve got to his partner.

Steve could hear nothing but his own heavy breathing, his movements suddenly feeling sluggish, as if he was moving through water. As he knelt and reached for Mike, his eyes fell on a small tear in the back of his jacket. He dropped his left hand to the bottom of the jacket and flipped it up. There was a small hole in the blue knit vest, in the middle of Mike's back near his spine, surrounded by a wide circle of blood.

With shaking hands, unaware of everything around him except the man lying before him, he grabbed Mike's shoulders and turned him over into his lap. Mike's lips were slightly parted and his eyes partially open, the pupils rolled back into his head. There was a bloody scrape on the right side of his face. And another small hole high on the left. Steve pulled the jacket open; blood covered the upper left side of Mike's chest.

Feverishly, suddenly unsure of what to do, Steve placed a hand over the wound, then looked up. "I need some help here!" he yelled, then moved his hand to Mike's neck, trying to find a pulse. Shaking, not sure if he was feeling one or not, he stared into his partner's face, then at his chest.

With a gasp, he glanced around, looking for someone. He could hear himself muttering, "He's not breathing, he's not breathing..." over and over, but all he could see and hear was Elliott beside him talking to Bidwell, telling him he was going to be alright.

Suddenly someone in uniform was beside him. Sgt. Bob Chapman turned to Steve and called his name. Sluggishly, not realizing he was being addressed, Steve finally turned when his name was called again.

Chapman was looking into his eyes. "We've got to get him on his left side. He's been shot through the lung and it'll fill with blood if we don't get him on his side." He began to pull Mike from Steve's grip.

The younger man was suddenly jolted into action. He released his hold and allowed Chapman to reposition his partner. Steve sat on the asphalt with his right leg bent knee up so Mike was braced against him, his head resting on Steve's left thigh.

"Good," said Chapman quickly as he got up to move on to someone else, "just keep him like that. We have ambulances on the way." He turned quickly to Elliott and Bidwell.

Steve stroked Mike's hair, trying to get his shaking under control, not wanting to acknowledge that there was nothing more he could do for his partner right now. Steve looked around – it was the first time he took notice of the chaotic scene around him.

There seemed to be dozens of people milling around, uniformed and plainclothes officers and civilians, shouting orders, helping the wounded. Steve leaned forward as best he could. "Stay with me, Mike," he whispered, "for god's sake, stay with me…"

The wail of sirens could finally be heard. Turning the sirens off in the confines of the garage, three ambulances screamed into the garage and squealed to a stop.

Chapman could be heard yelling, "We've got three ambulances here – more are coming! I want the three worst to go first – Bob, Mike and Charlie! Let's move it!"

Within seconds, Steve and Mike were surrounded and Mike was gently lifted out of Steve's grasp and laid on his side on a nearby gurney. As Steve scrambled to his feet, the gurney was wheeled to an ambulance and disappeared inside, doors were slammed and it was on it's way in a matter of seconds.

Steve was following numbly behind, when someone caught his sleeve and pulled him back. He turned to see a uniformed officer staring at him, then pointing toward a black-and-white that stood with all its doors open. Elliott was already getting in and Steve quickly followed. No sooner had the doors slammed than the cruiser was on its way, lights and sirens.

As the black-and-white followed the ambulances, Steve glanced over at Elliott. "How's Charlie doin'?"

A stricken Elliott, who was staring into space, just shook his head. "I don't know. He was talking to me, but I think it's really bad." He took a deep steadying breath. "How's Mike?"

Steve swallowed, trying to control the tremor he knew would be in his voice. "He was…um…I couldn't find a pulse…I, uh, I don't think he was breathing…" He stopped.

Elliott looked up. "He'll be okay," he said with an attempt at reassurance, but there was no conviction in his voice.

# # # # #

The hospital waiting room was crowded, but for the number of people, the volume of their voices was surprisingly low. Police officers, in uniform or not, were everywhere. News of the shooting had reached everyone, and those not on duty, and some that were, had descended on Franklin in a wave.

Steve and Elliott were sitting side by side, both lost in their own thoughts. Steve was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor tile. Elliott was resting his head against the back of the chair, eyes closed.

Steve became aware that someone was standing directly in front of him. He looked up to see Captain Rudy Olsen, who leaned down and put a fatherly hand on his shoulder.

"How are you doing?" Olsen asked kindly.

Steve looked down again and shook his head. "Rudy," he said quietly, voice wavering, "I think he's gone."

Olsen took a deep breath, and glanced around quickly. A patrolman caught the look and grabbed a chair and set it so the older man could sit. Face-to-face, Olsen put his hands of both of the inspector's forearms and leaned in close. "Why do think that?" he asked slowly, "And Steve, I want you to answer me as a police officer, not as a friend or a partner, you understand?"

Steve nodded. He inhaled deeply before he spoke. "He was shot through the chest – high left to mid-back, near his spine. He was unresponsive. His eyes were rolled back in his head, I couldn't find a pulse, and he wasn't breathing. And the two wounds weren't bleeding either, which is a sign that his heart had stopped pumping, isn't it?"

He had spoken so softly Olsen had had to lean in closer to hear him. Now the older man moved back slightly and composed himself. Then equally quietly he asked, "How long has he been in there?" He nodded over his shoulder in the direction of Emergency.

Steve shook his head again and shrugged. "I don't know, half an hour, forty-five minutes."

Olsen gave himself several seconds to compose his thoughts. He knew his next words wouldn't be for a colleague, but for a young man who may have just held his best friend dead in his arms. "Steve," he began slowly, "don't you think that if Mike were gone, someone would have come out to tell you before now?"

Olsen smiled slightly when Steve's head came up and his red-rimmed eyes glistened with the faintest trace of hope. "Mike wouldn't give up on you; don't give up on him."

Steve nodded, and Olsen could see the barest hint of a returned smile. "Yeah."

With a reassuring squeeze of Steve's forearms, Olsen stood up. Before turning to Elliott, he once more put a reassuring hand on Steve's shoulder. "That's something to hold onto, isn't it?" The younger man nodded.

As Olsen moved his chair to in front of Elliott, someone sat heavily on Steve's other side. He looked up into the serious visage of Norm Haseejian. "Here, kiddo," said the sergeant, "I think Mike would want you to hold onto this." He held out the familiar grey fedora.

Steve's eyes fell to the hat and he froze momentarily. Then, quietly, "Thanks, Norm," as he took it in both hands. The hat was wet in spots, and Steve realized that it had been hastily cleaned to remove any blood.

Norm slipped an arm around Steve's shoulder, and together the two homicide detectives sat in the crowded, hushed room, and waited.

# # # # #

They didn't have to wait long. Steve heard his name being mentioned and looked up to see a doctor in surgical scrubs talking to a group of patrolmen. A couple of the officers pointed in his direction, and Steve heard one of them say, "He's the lieutenant's partner. Steve Keller."

Steve's heart sank as he watched the doctor nod his curt thanks and, grim-faced, turn to cross the room.


	3. Chapter 3

As the grim-faced doctor crossed the room towards him, Steve got unsteadily to his feet. He felt Haseejian's supportive hand on his elbow as the sergeant rose with him.

Approaching the ashen-faced young man, Doctor Williams suddenly seemed to realize that his stern expression was projecting the wrong attitude; he threw his hands up in a placating gesture and his features softened. Closing in on Steve, he said quickly, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. Steve, is it?"

The now-confused police inspector nodded.

Williams, who was not much older than Steve, smiled encouragingly. "I'm here to give you some good news. The lieutenant is going to be just fine."

Steve's face went blank. "What?" he asked quietly, not sure he had heard correctly. He felt Norm's hand tighten on his elbow.

Williams nodded, now starting to grin. "As a matter of fact, he's going to be walking out of here with you in about three or four days."

As a babble of relieved voices could be heard around him, Steve stared deep into the doctor's eyes. "But he was –"

"Shot in the chest, yes," Williams finished. "But sometimes things can look a lot worse than they really are. The bullet entered just below his left collarbone and exited his lower left rib cage above his liver. The only organ it damaged was his lung, which partially collapsed. But, luckily, the pleural cavity filled with air and not blood.

"We didn't even have to operate on him. We've put in a chest tube to re-inflate his lung, and now we just give him some time to recover."

Steve, who had held his breath while Williams spoke, released it in one big gasp. He felt Haseejian's arm around his shoulders and he was shaken. "Oh my god, really?" was all he could get out.

"Really," said Williams with a grin. "Look, we're moving him into ICU, where we're going to keep him for the next 24 hours or so while the tube is in, and as soon as we get him settled, you can join him. And," he continued quickly before Steve could interrupt, "yes, you can stay with him all night, if you want."

Steve took the doctor's hand and shook it warmly. "Thank you," he said quietly.

"You're welcome." He glanced around the room and his expression turned serious. "I'm sorry, I have to go. There's still a lot to do. It's a tough day…"

"Of course," said Steve, as Haseejian's shook the doctor's hand and nodded his thanks.

Williams turned and headed back across the room. Steve felt hands on his shoulders and slapping his back as he sunk gratefully down onto the chair. A hand dropped onto his leg and squeezed and he looked up into Elliott's tear-filled eyes.

Steve put a hand on the back on Elliott's neck, a gesture he was used to receiving from Mike, and he gently shook him. "Charlie'll be okay," he whispered encouragingly. All Elliott could do was nod.

Steve turned to the smiling Armenian sitting once more beside him. "He's alive, Norm," he grinned, shaking his head in disbelief. Haseejian nodded, and watched as Steve rubbed the tears from his eyes and cheeks. "Sorry."

"Hey," Haseejian said quietly as he put a hand on the back of Steve's head and held him gently, "don't ever apologize for loving someone."

# # # # #

Feeling a strange mixture of dread and anticipation, Steve followed the nurse to the ICU cubicle. Even before he got to the door, through the glass wall he could see the figure on the bed, and his heart began to pound once again.

With the fedora still in his hand, he stepped through the doorway and stopped, taking it all in. Mike was lying on his back, his head on a thin pillow, a sheet pulled up to his waist, an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth. An IV apparatus was attached to his right arm. His left arm was stretched out perpendicular to his body and resting on a towel on top of a bed-high rolling table. Held in place by surgical tape, a clear plastic chest tube protruded from between his ribs about two inches below his left armpit and hung over the edge of the bed.

Two cardiac monitor electrodes and cables were visible on his upper chest, another on the centre left side of his chest; other cables disappeared under the sheet. A still-developing dark red and purple bruise covered his entire left side, and just below his collarbone, a small gauze bandage was taped over the entry wound.

"Inspector Keller?" came a soft voice suddenly beside him. Steve turned to see a middle-aged physician in a white coat. "I'm Doctor Peters. I'll be one of the people looking after your partner for the next 48 hours or so." He looked at the bed and its occupant, and Steve followed his gaze. "Before I tell you everything that's going on here, I just want to reassure you, he looks a lot worse than he is."

"He looks pretty bad," Steve said quietly.

"Well, in this case, looks are deceiving," Peters explained as he crossed to the bed, Steve following. "What did Dr. Williams tell you?"

Steve was staring at his partner's face, at the ugly scrape on his left temple and cheekbone, then at his chest, taking comfort in its steady rise and fall. "Um, he said the bullet just went through his left lung, and didn't hit anything else; and that his lung partly collapsed and they had to put the chest tube in."

"That's pretty well it," Peters confirmed. "We're going to keep him under for the next 24 hours to allow his lung to re-inflate, which it's already doing. Then we'll remove the tube, and keep him doped up and comfortable for another day – that chest tube hurts like a sonofabitch," he said with a smile. "After that, we'll move him to a room upstairs and keep an eye on him for another 24 hours, and then, believe it or not, you'll be able to take him home."

Steve exhaled heavily. "Less than two hours ago I thought he was dead," he said quietly, continuing to stare at Mike.

"Well, your partner's one incredibly lucky man." He glanced down at the hat in Steve's hand. "That's his, I'm assuming?" At Steve's nod, Peters gestured towards the IV stand on the far side of the bed. "Why don't you put it up there so he can see it when he wakes up? And then make yourself comfortable."

"I don't want to be in anybody's way."

"Oh, don't worry about that. You won't be. And I have a feeling both of you need the company right now." He studied Steve for a moment before he continued. "What happened today, if you don't mind me asking?"

Steve looked at him, suddenly realizing that he had been so focused on Mike that he was actually unaware of what had taken place. "I'm not really sure. I was so…" he gestured vaguely towards the bed.

Peters put a hand on his forearm. "It's okay. Your attention was elsewhere, that's understandable. Not a problem." He cocked his head, listening. "I'm being paged. Look, don't worry about Mike – he's doing great and he's in good hands. You just make yourself at home. I'll be in and out all night. And Steve, physically at least, the worst is over."

Peters quickly left the cubicle and Steve was alone with Mike. He crossed slowly to the other side of the bed and did as the doctor suggested, putting the fedora on top of the IV stand. He pulled the overstuffed chair in the corner closer to the side of the bed and took off his jacket, draping it over the back.

He sat on the edge of the chair and leaned forward. He picked up Mike's hand in both of his, anchored his elbows on the bed, and rested his chin on his hands; and staring at his sedated, wounded partner, sat unmoving for the next several hours.


	4. Chapter 4

Steve sensed a presence in the doorway of the ICU cubicle and looked up. Rudy Olsen smiled slightly. "Can I come in?"

Steve sat back a bit and lowered Mike's right hand to the bed, releasing it. "Of course."

Olsen slowly crossed to the bed, staring at its occupants still form. "How's he doing?" he asked quietly.

"Good, good," Steve answered. "They told me he looks a lot worse than he is. I sure hope so," he finished with a sigh. They both stared at the sedated man for a long moment, then Steve looked up at his colleague.

"You look exhausted."

Olsen sighed heavily as his eyes shifted to the younger man. "It's been one hell of a day and it's a long way from over." He glanced behind him at an empty metal chair. "Do you mind?" He gestured towards it.

"No, please."

Olsen picked up the chair and brought it closer to the left side of the bed, so that he and Steve would be talking across it.

Steve looked down, as if trying to find words. "Ah, Rudy, I, ah, I just want to thank you for what you said back there…in the waiting room. It was exactly what I needed to hear." Olsen smiled and nodded. Steve looked at Mike once more. "I just couldn't imagine my life without him," he added softly.

"Well, you don't have to, thank god," said Olsen. "You're two of the lucky ones today," he finished with a sad sigh.

Steve looked up at the captain, who was staring, seemingly unfocused, at the wounded man on the bed. Steve gave him a moment and then asked, "Rudy, what the hell happened today?"

Olsen seemed to pull himself back to the moment and turned to meet Steve's stare. He shook his head. "We're still trying to piece it together. The only thing we know for sure is there was more than one shooter and they got away without a trace."

"More than one -?"

"Ballistics has identified at least three different guns, and most probably there were four. Big bastards too – forty caliber." He stopped and took a deep breath, and his eyes travelled back to Mike. "It's amazing anybody survived…"

Steve cleared his throat. "I, ah, I've been so caught up with what was going on with Mike, I never even thought about the others." He sounded apologetic, and Olsen smiled softly in understanding. "And now I'm almost afraid to ask…"

Olsen's smile disappeared and a look of infinite sadness claimed his features. He took several seconds and a deep breath. "We lost two at the scene," he began quietly and watched as Steve closed his eyes and froze.

"Who?"

"Derek Collins and Alan Donner. Both of them were hit in the head." He waited a few seconds before continuing. "Two more are critical – Charlie, who was hit in the stomach, and Bob Jeffries, who caught two in the chest. Mike was critical when he got here but he's listed as serious now."

Eyes still closed, Steve nodded.

"The others are all going to be fine. John Yu has already been released, and Carl Macklin is going to be released in the morning. Roy's going to be here for awhile – he took a bullet to the right thigh and it broke his femur."

Steve had leaned forward, elbows on his knees, head down, and now he ran his hands through his hair and sat back. "Goddammit," he hissed, gave himself some time to absorb everything, then looked his superior officer right in the eye. "I want to work on it, Rudy, don't tell me I can't."

Olsen had been expecting this, so the demand didn't faze him. He gave the young man a reassuring nod. "Don't worry, you will be. You, Jack, Simon, John – nobody's partner is going to be excluded. We want these bastards, but we're going to take them down as a department, not as a bunch of revenge-seeking vigilantes.

"But," Olsen continued, getting up and putting the chair back in the corner, "until he's on his feet again," he nodded at Mike, "and we've done right by our fallen, your place is here." He looked Steve in the eyes. "Are we clear on that?"

"Yes, sir," Steve said with a slight smile, knowing an order when he heard one.

Olsen looked at Mike once more. "He looks peaceful. Look, why don't you head home for a while, get some decent food and some sleep?"

"Thanks, but, ah, I'm not leaving this room until his opens his eyes and looks at me," said Steve with finality.

Olsen nodded slowly. "Yeah, I understand…I'm not going anywhere either. I still have two guys who could go either way," he said sadly. He turned and plodded towards the door.

"Keep me in the loop?"

Olsen turned back at the door. "You bet." He tapped the doorframe twice, then turned slowly and exited into the ICU hub.

Steve moved his chair so it was perpendicular to the bed, laced the fingers of his left hand through Mike's right, leaned his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes.

# # # # #

He felt his arm being jostled and he awoke with a start, his head snapping up from the chair. "Steve…it's Philip. Rudy said you wanted to be kept in the loop."

Steve stared bleary-eyed up at Sergeant Polanski, not much older than himself, who sometimes acted as Olsen's aide-de-camp. "What is it?" He glanced at Mike, who seemed fine, but that didn't stop his heart from racing.

Polanski suddenly didn't seem to know where to start. "Rudy just wanted you to know that they had to take Charlie Bidwell back into surgery."

That woke Steve up in a hurry. "Why?'

"Seems they can't get the bleeding in his stomach to stop. It's not looking good," he finished helplessly.

Steve nodded. "Okay…okay. Ah, thanks for telling me." As Polanski turned to leave, Steve caught his sleeve. "Where's Jack?"

"He's in the waiting room with Charlie's wife and daughter."

"Ok, thanks. You'll come back and tell me ?" He left the rest unsaid.

Polanski nodded. Before he turned again to leave, he glanced at Mike and then back to Steve and smiled slightly. "I'm really glad Mike's going to be okay."

As Polanski left the room, Steve half-stood and leaned across the bed. With a gentle hand, he stroked the side of Mike's face, then bent down and, with eyes closed, lightly kissed his forehead.

# # # # #

Disheveled and bleary-eyed, Steve stood in front of the coffee machine, trying to fish coins out of his pocket. He felt a hand on his shoulder. "Here, let me get that for you," Haseejian's voice boomed in his ear.

The sergeant fed coins into the machine. "What are you doing out here? I thought you weren't going to leave the room till Mike woke up?" He knew it was too early in the day for that to start happening.

Running a tired hand over his unshaven face, Steve cleared his throat. "They've taken him for an x-ray to see if his lung's re-inflated. And if it has, they're gonna take the chest tube out."

"That's the best news I've heard for awhile," Haseejian smiled.

Steve nodded. "Yeah. Look, Polanski never came back last night – how's Charlie doing?"

Haseejian took the coffee cup out of the machine and handed it to the young inspector. "He's not doin' good. He's back in ICU but they might have to operate again. They can't get him to stop bleeding." He glanced around the waiting room. "It's a good thing that half the department has been here to give blood."

Steve took a sip of the coffee and winced.

"That stuff's crap," said Haseejian. "Throw it out. I'll send one of the young guys out to get us some good stuff and a couple of donuts. What do you say?"

On Steve's nod, Haseejian gestured across the room and a young patrolman separated himself from some others and started towards them.

"Have you heard anything about Bob? Rudy said he was critical as well."

"Bob's doing great – they think he's gonna be okay too, like Mike. Lucky."

The patrolman was now beside them, and stood waiting patiently while Haseejian dug some bills out of his pocket. He took the young man aside to give him their coffee and donut order.

Steve turned to look at the waiting room, still overflowing with uniformed and plainclothes cops. As awful as the coffee was, he kept sipping, badly in need of the caffeine.

Suddenly, from the far corner, the volume rose; the timber of voices had changed from quiet conversation to startled exclamations and cries of alarm. Haseejian broke away from the patrolman and quickly crossed the room.

Steve started to follow, but Haseejian moved faster and had turned back to face him, his face a shattered mask. "We just lost Charlie."


	5. Chapter 5

**Thanks to all who continue to read, and those who continue to review. Your opinions are always important, and very appreciated.**

Steve Keller was standing at the foot of the bed, staring somberly at its occupant.

Mike Stone was back in ICU, but he looked much different. The oxygen mask and IV were still in place, but the chest tube and cardiac monitor had been removed, and he was now dressed in a light blue hospital gown. His left arm was strapped across his chest. The bed was raised slightly and his head rested on a couple of pillows.

And for the first time since the shooting, Steve actually believed that their partnership was indeed not over.

"See, I told you," came a voice from behind him, and he glanced over as Doctor Peters moved past him and closer to the head of the bed. "He looks better, doesn't he?"

Steve laughed slightly. "Yeah, he sure does. Thank you."

"Oh, don't thank me," said Peters as gave his patient a once-over. "I just provided the means, he did all the heavy lifting," he joked with a nod at Mike. "So, we're gonna push back on the sedatives so he comes to, and then we'll manage his meds here for the next 24 hours; he's gonna be very, very sore so we'll keep him as comfortable as we can. Tomorrow we'll pull back on the meds again, move him upstairs and keep an eye on him till Thursday morning, and then he's all yours."

"How long will it take till he starts to come around?"

"Well, everyone's different. I wouldn't think we'll see any reaction for at least an hour or so, but he could surprise us. The best I can say is, if you're gonna go someplace, don't go for too long; you never know."

Steve shook his head as he headed for the chair. "I'm not going anywhere. I want to make sure I'm the first thing he sees."

# # # # #

Fifty minutes later Steve felt the first slight tremor in Mike's right fingers. He sat up straighter. "Mike…Mike, it's me, I'm here."

There was a little stronger movement in the fingers but nothing registered on his face. "Take your time," Steve kept his voice low and soothing, "there's no rush…"

He continued to talk, quietly, comfortingly, as the older man struggled to regain consciousness. Peters came in at one point, studied his patient, then told Steve that Mike was doing great and everything was fine.

Eventually Mike's eyelids started to flutter slightly. It was another few minutes before his eyes finally opened. Steve stood and leaned over the bed so he was in his partner's field of vision. "Hi," he said simply when Mike's eyes eventually started to focus.

Under the oxygen mask, Steve could see a very slight smile, and he grinned himself, suddenly, overwhelmingly relieved.

It took another 20 minutes for Mike to come around enough to turn his head and meet Steve's eyes evenly. The younger man was leaning on the bed, holding Mike's right hand, and grinning from ear to ear.

Mike closed his eyes for a second, tried to take a deep breath, winced, and looked at his partner in confusion. Though his voice was muffled by the oxygen mask, Steve heard him ask, "What happened?"

"You got shot. In the parking garage. Do you remember?"

Mike seemed to think for a moment, then shook his head slightly. "No."

"You got hit in the chest. It collapsed your left lung but that's all it did. You were really lucky. You're in a lot of pain because they had to put a chest tube in between your ribs, but you're going to be fine."

Mike winced again. "It hurts to breathe."

"Yeah, it's going to be like that for awhile," Steve told him apologetically. "But they're going to put you on some cool drugs for the next little while to help with the pain."

Mike smiled under the mask. "Oh, good." Steve could see him try to stave off a wave of discomfort. "When did it happen?"

"Yesterday," Steve told him, unable to keep the amazement from his voice.

"Yesterday?" Mike repeated weakly, sounding awed.

Steve nodded, eyebrows raised. Mike closed his eyes, and Steve could tell he was losing strength. He patted Mike's hand. "I'll be right back, I'm going to get the doctor."

But no sooner were the words out of his mouth when Doctor Peters strode briskly into the room and up to the bed. "Ah ha, he's awake."

Mike turned slowly towards the new voice and opened his eyes.

"Lieutenant Stone, I presume? I'm Doctor Peters. I've been looking after you for the past 24 hours," he announced lightly.

"Mike, call me Mike."

"Then Mike it is." Peters smiled down at his patient and then briefly over at Steve. He slipped the oxygen mask off. "Let's take this off so you can talk to me easier. So, Mike, how are you feeling?"

Mike hesitated, as if taking stock of his body. "My chest hurts like hell, and I have a headache, but I think everything else is okay," he said slowly and carefully.

"That's what I wanted to hear. Now we can give you something for the headache and we're going to increase your meds so you don't have so much trouble breathing." He nodded towards Steve. "Has he told you what going to happen in the next couple of days?"

Both Mike and Steve shook their heads.

"Okay, well, we're going to give you some pretty good drugs so you're more comfortable and keep you here in the ICU until tomorrow, then we're going to ship you upstairs to a regular room and make sure everything's okay for the next 24 hours. And then, sometime on Thursday morning, you get to go home." He finished with a smile.

Mike seemed a little overwhelmed by all the information, but he managed a small smile of his own. "That sounds great."

"Good. Well, I'm going to go arrange for those meds; I'll be right back."

Peters started for the door. Steve stood up quickly and patted Mike's hand. "I'll be right back." He caught Peters just outside the door. "Doctor Peters," he called sotto voce, and the physician turned back to him.

"Um, I don't want to tell him about the others yet – I don't think it's the right time. So I just want to make sure that…" His voice trailed off.

Peters was nodding. "Completely understood. I'll tell the staff. Don't worry, we can be very discreet." Peters started to leave and then turned back. "I've been meaning to ask, how long have you two been partners?"

"Just over five years," Steve said with quiet pride.

Peters nodded. "Well, you can stop worrying about him, he's doing great." He crossed to the nurse's station as Steve made his way back into the room.

Mike turned his head and opened his eyes when Steve sat back down, and they looked at each other in silence. Finally Mike said, "You've been here all night, right?" The younger man nodded. "Go home, for me, please. I'm not going anywhere."

Steve smiled. "I'll go home for a bit once you go to sleep, I promise."

Mike tightened his grip on Steve's hand as much as he could.

"Close your eyes," Steve said gently, and Mike did as he was told.


	6. Chapter 6

Steve woke up slowly, a little disoriented. He sat up gingerly, stiffly, remembering that he was slouched in the armchair in the corner of the ICU cubicle. As he tilted his head from side to side, working the crick out of his neck, he glanced towards the bed and froze.

Mike was sitting up slightly, the head of the bed partially raised, his eyes wide open and a warm smile lighting his face.

"Whoa," Steve chuckled, "you look better. What a difference a day makes." He got up and walked closer to the bed. "How do you feel?"

"Like my chest is being held together by tensor bandages," Mike answered with a careful chuckle.

Steve smiled and chuckled back. "Well, it kinda is…"

Mike nodded with a rueful smile of agreement. "I thought you went home last night. When did you come back?"

Steve sat on the edge of the bed. "I couldn't sleep, so I figured I might as well not sleep here instead of not sleeping there. But I did bring us back a little treat." At Mike's curious look, he continued, "There's a small tub of Rocky Road ice cream in the freezer, with two spoons."

"Oh, that sounds great." Mike's voice was low, as he was careful not to take deep breaths. He looked curious. "Wait a minute, what freezer?"

"Uh, yeah, the nurse's fridge." Steve almost looked embarrassed. Mike's eyebrows rose. "What? Do you think I used my masculine wiles?"

"You had to have used something," Mike chuckled, then his face grew serious. He hesitated for a few seconds, looking down, then up again into his partner's eyes. "Steve, I remember… I remember what happened before I was shot." He waited while Steve retrieved the chair from the corner, pulled it closer to the bed, and sat.

"There were eleven of us. I know because I pushed my way onto the elevator just before the doors closed and Roy made a point of letting me know there were now eleven people in the elevator instead of the recommended ten." He smiled at the memory and Steve did as well.

When Mike began again, he was staring, unfocused at the foot of the bed. "When the doors opened we started to walk to the cars. I was in a group at the front with Charlie, Allan and Derek. We were teasing Charlie about his weight and that he was the one who was going to choose the restaurant…and when he took his car keys out of his pocket, I elbowed him and the keys fell…

"I bent down to pick them up and that's when I heard it – this incredibly loud explosion… I know now it was the first shot… and at the same time I heard someone moan … and then nothing…" He looked up at Steve. "I must have been hit by the second shot."

Steve nodded. "That's what we figure too. And that also explains the trajectory of the bullet that went through you. We assumed you were bending over, we just didn't know why." Steve braced himself; knowing his partner as well as he did he knew what the next question was going to be.

Mike laid back on the pillows, took as deep a breath as he could and closed his eyes for a few seconds. When he opened them, he was staring at the ceiling. "Steve, what happened to the others?"

Steve slipped his hand into Mike's and squeezed, and took a beat to steady himself. "Everybody got hit, Mike." He felt the grip on his hand tighten. "John Yu and Carl have already been released. Roy took one in the leg and it broke his femur; he's going to be here for awhile.

"John Burkhardt, Dan and Ron are all in serious condition but they're gonna be okay…Bob got hit twice in the chest and he's critical but doing better…"

Mike had closed his eyes and his breaths were starting to get deeper and longer, even through the pain and Steve could feel his grip tighten even more.

Steve took his own deep steadying breath. "Mike," he began slowly, quietly, "we lost three…Allan, Derek…and Charlie."

Mike squeezed his eyes tightly shut, and Steve could tell that he was having trouble breathing. The hand in his own started to shake, and Steve held on tighter, helping his friend to ride out this wave of grief and sorrow. Mike turned his head away but not before Steve could see tears forming under his eyelids.

Steve sat quietly until Mike got himself under control and his breaths became shallower and not as painful. He knew that Mike had figured out that he was the only survivor of that first group.

Mike turned to face him, his eyes shiny with tears. "The keys," was all he said.

"What?"

"The car keys. If I hadn't bent down to pick up Charlie's car keys… it should've been me, not him…"

"Mike, you can't think that way. Besides, Charlie didn't die in the garage, he died yesterday. Complications. He was shot in the stomach and they couldn't get him to stop bleeding," Steve tried to explain, but Mike was hearing none of it.

"If I'd just let Charlie pick up his own keys…"

"Mike!" Steve was getting worried. But he wasn't prepared for his partner to pull his hand away and turn angry eyes in his direction. Steve sat back, startled.

"I'd like to be alone," Mike said coldly. Steve caught his breath in surprise and started to shake his head, but Mike just repeated through clenched teeth, "I would like to be alone….please." And he turned away.

Steve sat back, stunned and confused, but when Mike continued to stare at the far wall, he got up slowly and left the room.

# # # # #

"I don't know what to do, Rudy," Steve said slowly, staring at the mug he held in both hands on the table in front of him. He had found Olsen in the hospital cafeteria where the older man was attempting to finish a meal.

"I mean, I know he was shot in the chest, he's on pain medication up to the eyeballs, and he just found out that he lost three friends and he was only one that survived, but I swear to god, I've never seen him turn that fast before, ever."

Olsen had put his knife and fork down and was listening intently. He watched as the younger man took a sip of his coffee. "Let's face it, Steve, that doesn't sound like the Mike we know. He's obviously had a lot happen to him in a very short span of time. He's in a lot of pain, physically and emotionally. And he's dealing with the reality that he could have just as easily been killed but for some reason he not only survived but he's walking out of here in a couple of days, while those that he was standing there with are all dead. That's one hell of a reality."

Steve nodded as Olsen continued, "And not only did the others die, but they were his friends - his colleagues - and in the case of Charlie, someone who was a part of his life for almost 25 years. I'd be very surprised if he didn't feel any survivor's guilt," he finished with a sigh.

"I hear ya," agreed Steve, "but, no offense, that doesn't help me figure out what I can do to help him."

Olsen nodded in bemused agreement, but he smiled slyly as his pushed his tray away and began to stand. "Well, that may not help, but I think I know what will. Leave it up to me; I have an idea. Why don't you take the next couple of hours and get out of here?"

Steve looked at the older man curiously but decided not to inquire further. But he did nod. "Yeah, that's a good idea. I've got to go to Mike's place anyway and get him a change of clothes for tomorrow, and I'm gonna move him into my place until he can function on his own." He shook his head ruefully as he stood. "That is, if we're talking again by tomorrow…"

Olsen chuckled and reached out to pat Steve's shoulder. "Don't worry, you will be."

# # # # #

Mike was lying deep into the pillows with his eyes closed, trying not to think, desperately wanting the oblivion of a sleep that wouldn't come. An hour before he had been moved several floors up to a private room, but even in the quiet of the new surroundings, sleep was elusive.

He had heard the door open and close but chose to ignore it. But when he felt the light touch of a hand on his right forearm, he turned his head slowly and opened his eyes. Startled, he pulled his head back slightly, eyes wide, and whispered, "Maureen."

The brown-haired, middle-aged woman smiled warmly. "Hello, Michael." She stroked his arm.

Mike swallowed heavily, and took as deep a breath as he dared before he said, "Maureen…I am so, so –"

"I know, I know…I am too," she said sadly, and he could see the deep sorrow in her red-rimmed eyes. Before he could say anything else, she continued quickly, "I've heard that you think it should have been you. Something about keys? About you picking up Charlie's keys?"

Mike was staring at her, trying to figure out how she knew about something he had only told Steve a couple of hours before. He nodded, "I should have been in his place –"

"And if you were, it wouldn't have made any difference. It wasn't the gunshot that killed Charlie; it was his health."

Mike looked confused.

"Charlie wasn't in good health, Michael, and he hadn't been for a long time. He chose to keep it quiet. Some of the brass knew and as long as he could still give 100 percent to his work, they let him stay. But he was getting close to having to retire on a disability pension."

"I don't understand…"

Maureen smiled warmly. "Charlie had diabetes and high blood pressure. He was taking a lot of medications to keep it under control and he was doing really well with it. But one of the drugs he had to take was a blood thinner. And when he got shot, they couldn't get his blood to clot and that's what killed him, Michael." She paused, letting her words sink in. "If he had been as healthy as you are, he would have been walking out of this hospital right beside you."

Seeing the sadness in his eyes, she reached out and stroked his face, being careful not to touch the healing scrapes on his cheek and temple. "So you see, you have nothing to feel guilty about. Charlie had a fighting chance but the odds were against him."

Mike closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying not to wince. He opened his eyes and smiled. "Thank you," he said quietly.

She nodded, smiling back at him. "Charlie loved you, you know. He was proud of the friendship you shared. You can still do Charlie and me a couple of big favours. First of all, if you're up to it, the kids and I would be really honoured to see you at the funeral on Monday."

Mike nodded. "Nothing will keep me away. I will be there."

"I know that," she winked at him, smiling, and then her face grew serious. "Michael, I want you to find them, find whoever did this to you and Charlie and the others. Get them – for me, and for Charlie."

Mike set his jaw, trying to control the shaking in his voice. "I will, I promise. If it takes till the day I die."

Maureen nodded as they stared at each other for several seconds. Then she smiled and stood. "You need to get some sleep and I need to get back to my kids." She smiled gently at him. "Are you okay now?" she asked kindly.

Mike smiled self-consciously and nodded. "Yeah, I am. Thank you."

"Good. Do me another favour then?'

"Sure."

"Forgive your partner. He's just relieved and happy that you're alive and you're going to be okay. Just like we all are. With everything that's happened in the past couple of days, you're like our little miracle," she chuckled, then leaned over the bed and kissed his cheek.

"I will," Mike promised as Maureen crossed slowly to the door and looked back. She smiled at him from the doorway as she opened it and exited.

# # # # #

Steve was slouched in a cafeteria chair, nursing a coffee, his feet up on the chair across from him, an overnight bag sitting on the chair beside him. He was staring unfocused at the table.

He barely registered it when someone crossed near to the table, then paused and touched his arm. Startled, he looked up, into the bemused stare of his superior.

Rudy Olsen chuckled. "Mike wants to see you. They've moved him upstairs, room 512." And with that he continued towards and door and out of the cafeteria.

# # # # #

Steve pushed the heavy door opened and entered the room, leaving the overnight bag near the door as it closed behind him.

Mike's eyes were closed and he looked asleep. Steve tiptoed quietly to the right side of the bed. Just as he was about to sit, Mike opened his eyes and Steve froze. Expressions neutral, they stared at each other for several silent seconds, then Mike smiled warmly.

Steve could see the apology in his partner's eyes and relaxed and returned the smile, lowering himself into the chair.

"Hey," said Mike quietly, "you still have that ice cream?"


	7. Chapter 7

Steve dropped the empty ice cream tub into the wastepaper basket and walked back towards the bed.

"I'm sorry," Mike said quietly.

"What?"

Mike took a careful deep breath. "I'm, ah, I'm sorry … for earlier." He was looking at the sheet in front of him, unable and unwilling to make eye contact. "There was just so much coming at me all at once. I thought I was ready to hear it and … well, obviously I wasn't."

"It's okay –"

"No, it's not," Mike interrupted. He looked up and met the younger man's gaze. "I had a visitor." He told Steve about Maureen Bidwell and what she told him.

"Wow," Steve said quietly. "I had no idea. He sure kept it quiet, didn't he?"

"Yeah. But you know, I'd probably do the same thing. Charlie loved this job as much as I do." Mike closed his eyes, the strain of the last few hours evident on his face.

"Look, ah," Steve said, "I'm gonna get out of here, let you get some rest. They told me you're going to be released around 9 tomorrow morning, so I'll be here in plenty of time."

Mike nodded without opening his eyes, laying his head back against the pillow.

"You want me to lower the bed a little?"

Another nod. Steve went to the foot of the bed and lowered it slightly, then crossed to the door and picked up the overnight bag. He was about to leave when he stopped and went back to the bed. "You okay?"

Mike opened his eyes slightly and smiled. "Yeah," he whispered.

"Good. I'll see you in the morning."

As Steve started to turn away, Mike asked, "What time is it?"

Steve glanced at his watch. "A little after four. Why?"

"Could you do me a favour?"

"Sure. Anything."

"Find Jack. Talk to him. Make sure he's okay. You'll know what to say to him."

Steve smiled. "Sure." He reached out and put his hand lightly on the top of Mike's head. "You go to sleep."

Mike closed his eyes and nodded tiredly. He was asleep before Steve made it to the door.

# # # # #

The Bryant Street building was bustling when Steve got off the elevator on the third floor. It seemed to take him forever to get to Robbery, so many people stopping him to enquire about Mike.

In contrast, Robbery was quiet and somber. The half-dozen officers present were still dealing with the reality that one of their own would not be coming back. After fielding more questions about Mike, Steve asked if any of them had seen Jack Elliott recently.

Sergeant Ray Parker shook his head. "No, I don't think anybody's seen him since Charlie died. He was at the hospital with Maureen and Karen but then he left and I don't think anybody's seen him since."

"I called his apartment last night, you know, just to talk to him," added Inspector Peter Mueller, "and there was no answer. I mean, he could be there and just not answering."

"Yeah," agreed Steve. "Do you guys have his address? I might stop by."

Mueller wrote the address on a piece of paper, and Steve folded it and put it in his jacket pocket. "This is my first time back since the shooting. This place is really buzzing."

Parker shook his head, exhaling loudly. "We're going 24 hours a day – everyone is here. You can feel the anger in the building. Everyone wants to get these guys."

# # # # #

A little over an hour later, Steve was sitting at his desk in Homicide. It hadn't taken long to get to Elliott's apartment, and his insistent knocking had produced no results. He spoke briefly to the building manager and a couple of neighbours, but none of them had seen Elliott in the past few days either.

Now he sat at his own desk, trying to put himself in Elliott's shoes, hoping to figure out where the young inspector had sequestered himself. Steve glanced towards Mike's office, at the empty coat rack that was the usual home of his partner's jacket and fedora.

He smiled to himself in the knowledge that he would be lucky enough to see that sight again; he could only imagine what Elliott was going through, and not for the first time since Monday afternoon was awed by the incredible luck that had spared him a similar grief.

Suddenly he sat up straighter. Without a word, he got up quickly and strode to the door.

# # # # #

The back door of the grey Galaxy opened and Steve Keller got in and slammed the door. He sat quietly for a few moments, then said quietly, "How ya doin', Jack?"

Elliott was in the driver's seat, and in the rearview mirror he met Steve's eyes evenly, without a smile or nod of recognition. "How did you know where to find me?"

Steve allowed himself a small smile. "I put myself in your shoes. Since you weren't in the office or at home, I figured you'd be in a place that reminded you of the time you spent with Charlie. Mike and I spend almost as much time in the car as we do in the office; it just made sense."

"I'm impressed. But what exactly are you doing here?" he asked flatly.

"A lot of people have been asking about you. They're worried. They haven't seen you for awhile and they just want to make sure you're okay."

"And they sent you to find out?" Elliott's tone was almost confrontational.

Steve hesitated. Elliott's demeanor was beginning to alarm him. "Yeah," he started slowly, "Mike asked me to –"

"Mike?" Elliott interrupted. "Mike asked you to talk to me."

"Yeah, he's worried about you –"

"Oh, he is, hunh?" EIliott interrupted again, this time with a trace of contempt in his voice. "Why, is he feeling guilty?"

Steve felt a small wave of anger well up, but he sat back and took a deep breath. "What does he have to feel guilty about?" he asked carefully, although he felt sure he knew what the answer was going to be.

"I know what happened in the garage," Elliott began forcefully. "I know all about the car keys, about Mike picking up Charlie's keys. Why couldn't he have just left them, let Charlie pick them up. Then it'd be me visiting Charlie in the hospital and you'd be burying Mike on Monday."

Steve stiffened, not wanting to believe what he was hearing. Elliott had stopped talking, as if he realized he had gone too far. The tense silence in the car lengthened until Steve got control of his anger.

"Jack," he began slowly, calmly, "it wasn't just the gunshot that killed Charlie. There were complications, you know that."

"What are you talking about?"

"Maureen Bidwell came to see Mike this afternoon. She told him that they couldn't get the bleeding to stop. And that was because of the blood thinners Charlie was taking for his high blood pressure. That's what killed him."

"Bullshit."

"Jack, Charlie had diabetes and high blood pressure. She said he was going to take an early retirement because of his health."

Elliott turned in the seat for the first time and faced Steve directly.

"Bullshit," he repeated. "I worked with Charlie for almost five years. I was with him almost every day. Charlie was fine. He wasn't on any medication. I would know." He glared at Steve defiantly.

Steve stared back, his mind racing as he tried to absorb what Elliott had just told him. Acknowledging that they were now on very shaky ground, and with no confidence that he could continue to speak to his colleague in a civilized manner, Steve just shook his head slowly. "Okay, Jack, okay. If that's what you want to believe –"

"It's the truth," Elliott interrupted, then turned back to stare out the windshield. "They were Charlie's keys," Steve heard him mutter under his breath.

Steve waited for a few seconds, not rising to the bait, then he reached for the handle and opened the door. As he got out, he said quietly, "Take care of yourself, Jack."

He slammed the door and started to walk away, his mind reeling. Was Elliott right? Was Charlie Bidwell healthy? Would Maureen lie to Mike so he wouldn't blame himself for Charlie's death? Was Elliott in denial so he could cope with the death of his partner? Or had Bidwell kept Elliott in the dark about his condition?


	8. Chapter 8

Steve finished doing up the buttons on Mike's pajama top. "Ready?"

Mike nodded, and then tensed. With Steve holding his right forearm for leverage and the other hand bracing his back, Mike twisted and leaned back against the pillows, then swung his legs up onto the bed. With teeth still clenched against the pain, he shifted gingerly into a more comfortable position, then relaxed and let his held breath out in a heavy sigh.

"Good?" Steve asked.

Mike nodded. "Yeah. Thanks."

"No problem. So, can I get you anything? Hungry?"

"No, I'm fine. I just want to relax."

"Yeah, I bet."

It had been a busy morning. Mike had been released shortly after 9 a.m. Steve arrived at the hospital about a half hour before that and received instructions as to Mike's out-patient care, paperwork had been issued and signed, Mike had been transferred to a wheelchair and off they had gone.

Steve had brought the LTD, realizing it would be easier for Mike to get into and out of than his Porsche; the police car had almost come in handy for another reason. Steve was driving so slowly so as not to jostle his injured passenger going over potholes and cablecar tracks that people behind were getting impatient. It was becoming so irritating that Steve contemplated putting the gumball on the roof to let everyone know that the slow-moving vehicle was actually a police car.

But now they were finally in the Union Street apartment and Mike was getting settled in for what was to be at least another several days of complete bed rest.

Steve had adjusted the sheets and blankets and made sure the glass of water with the bendable straw was within easy reach of the bed, then walked to the door.

"Hey," Mike's voice stopped him, "with all the kerfuffle this morning, I forgot to ask – did you find Jack yesterday?"

Steve hesitated ever so slightly before turning back to his partner. "Ah, yeah, he was at Bryant Street."

When Steve didn't continue, Mike waited a beat then, "And…?"

"Well, he's, ah, he's not taking it very well. He's very angry… and confused, I guess. He and Charlie were very, well … you know …"

Mike nodded sadly. "Yeah. Look, be there for him, when you can. You can help him. I think you two have a lot in common."

Steve turned to leave then looked back. He had decided he was not going to talk to anyone about Jack until first discussing things with Rudy Olsen. After several silent seconds, he smiled slightly. "There's one thing we don't have in common anymore – I still have you." He turned and left the room before Mike could see the tears that had welled up in his eyes.

# # # # #

Mike came to slowly, the ache in his chest waking him from a deep restful sleep. It took only a few seconds for him to remember he was no longer in a hospital room but rather Steve's bedroom, and he smiled slightly. He turned to look at the clock/radio on the nightstand: 3:10.

He closed his eyes in frustration. He knew he wasn't scheduled for another Percodan pill till 4 p.m. and from the discomfort in his chest already, he realized the next fifty minutes were going to be a living hell. The exertion of the day was starting to exact a price; but he knew if he could get through the next hour, from then on it should be easier going.

His eyes fell on a small bronze bell sitting beside the water glass. There seemed to be a piece of paper under it. He moved the bell and picked up the paper, recognizing Steve's writing immediately.

_A neighbor lent me this; ring it if you need me. I'm downstairs_.

Mike smiled, then looked to the open door. Picking up the bell, he rang it hesitantly. Within seconds, he heard footsteps on the stairs, and Steve appeared in the doorway, grinning. "Ah ha, it works."

Mike smiled, trying not to laugh. "It's a great idea. Thanks."

Steve moved closer to the bed. "You had a good sleep. How are you feeling?'

Mike grimaced. "Not so good. The pain is getting worse."

"Yeah, they said that might happen," Steve said sympathetically as he sat on the side of the bed and put a hand on Mike's forehead. "But you know what else they said, that I can't give you another pill until 4."

"I know," Mike nodded, gritting his teeth and breathing in short bursts, trying to fight the growing discomfort.

"Try to relax… I'm not going anywhere … we'll get through this together … just try to breath normally … close your eyes … relax … breath …" Steve dropped his voice to a whisper and, as he stroked Mike's forehead, he began his soothing litany and was rewarded when he saw the tension decrease as the older man seemed to gain some control over the pain.

Steve kept an eye on the clock as he continued to talk, and though the minutes seemed to crawl by, eventually the numbers clicked over to read 3:55. 'Close enough,' he thought as he reached for the pill bottle on the nightstand, snapped the cap and took out a pill. He was keeping his eyes on the occupant of the bed and noted that Mike, even though awake, had kept his eyes closed.

"Mike?" The blue eyes opened and turned in his direction. With a pill in one hand and the glass of water in the other, Steve nodded at his partner, who, with a grimace, lifted his head.

After swallowing the pill, Mike let his had drop back onto the pillow and closed his eyes. A little more than five minutes later, his eyes opened again and he smiled.

Steve chuckled. "There he is… my partner, the drug addict."

"Very funny." Mike took a deeper breath and sighed happily. "Oh, that feels better." He looked at Steve again. "Thanks."

"You're welcome." He stood up. "You going to be able to stay awake so we can have some dinner?"

"I think I can do that. What are we gonna have?"

"What do you want?"

"'Chez Keller', is it?"

Steve laughed. "To be honest, there's really nothing in the house to eat – but I do have a phone and there are lots of good restaurants around here that deliver. They never told me that anything is off limits, except alcohol, of course. Do you think you're up to eating a steak?"

Mike grinned. "Real meat? Seriously?"

"Not only real meat, but we can even have pie for dessert."

"Oh, please don't tease me. You mean I don't have to have jello?"

Steve laughed again. It felt good to be able to banter with his best friend once more. "Okay, okay, you got it. I'll find a good restaurant and see if they'll deliver. And if they don't, I'll go pick it up." He headed for the door. "Enjoy your high," he chuckled as he left.

Mike sank back deeper into the pillows, closed his eyes and smiled.

# # # # #

Steve put the coffee mug on the table in front of Dan Healey. "You know, just because he's out of the hospital, it doesn't mean he's running around and going back to work. He's going to be in bed for a good part of the upcoming week, and then he's going to be house-bound for another week after that, at least."

Healey watched as Steve handed another mug to Ryan Taylor. He shrugged in acknowledgement. "Point taken. Gotcha."

"So he's really upstairs?" asked Haseejian as he dug into a paper bag for a donut.

Steve stopped in his delivery of coffee and stared at the Armenian detective in bemused disbelief. "No, Norm, I took him to his house and left him there. Of course he's upstairs!" Steve finished with a laugh, and the others joined him.

"Okay, okay," Haseejian grumbled, "I just asked." He chuckled as he bit into the donut.

Lee Lessing pulled the top off one of the cardboard file boxes that were stacked near the front door and set it on the floor. "Shall we get started?" He and Bill Tanner took out the file folders and passed stacks of them to the group of detectives scattered around Steve's living room.

Healey passed around legal-length pads of paper and pencils from a paper bag at his feet. "So remember," he instructed, "we're looking for anyone with motive and opportunity. Don't overlook anything."

The room fell silent as everyone got to work. Over the course of the next hour, notes were taken, observations remarked upon, consultations made. Steve glanced up and noticed that Haseejian was not in the room. He vaguely remembered seeing him going upstairs to the bathroom about ten minutes earlier, but he hadn't returned.

Steve put down the file he was working on, crossed the room and silently mounted the stairs. The door to the bathroom was wide open; the door to his bedroom was slightly ajar. He remembered closing it the last time he was in there.

He pushed the bedroom door open quietly, hoping it wouldn't creak. Haseejian was sitting in the chair next to the bed, back to the door, staring at a sleeping Mike.

Steve crossed to behind Haseejian and put a gentle hand on his shoulder. "I was wondering where you went to."

Haseejian didn't look up. "Sorry," he said quietly, "I just had to see him for myself."

"You don't have to explain."

They shared a few moments of silence, both of them staring at the injured man in the bed.

"You know," Haseejian said eventually, "the office just wouldn't be the same without him there."

"Nope."

Haseejian finally looked up at Steve. "We got lucky, you know that."

Steve nodded. "I know. We really did." Steve glanced at the clock/radio on the nightstand. "He should be waking up in about an hour or so. If you guys are still here, I'll see if he's up to visitors. Does that work for you?"

Haseejian grinned as he stood up. "That'd be great." He took one more look at the bed before he and Steve left the room.

# # # # #

Steve was refilling everyone's mugs with the coffee pot when he heard it. He froze and cocked his head, then noticed the others doing the same.

"Um, was that a bell?" asked Lessing with a frown.

Steve straightened up and cleared his throat. "Uh, yeah, I gave Mike a little bell so he could get my attention, seeing as he can't yell. I guess he's awake." He started to bring the coffee pot back into the kitchen.

"Well, either that or an angel just got its wings?" Haseejian smiled and everyone except Taylor laughed.

"What?" the young inspector asked.

Haseejian looked at him in disbelief. "A bell ringing?... An angel getting its wings? …. George Bailey? … Clarence? …'It's A Wonderful Life? …"

Taylor just kept shaking his head.

With a bewildered shrug, Haseejian turned to the others, who were trying not to laugh. "What the hell are they teaching kids these days?"

Steve was already up the stairs and entering the bedroom. Mike was wide awake. "You look rested," Steve said as he crossed to the bed.

Mike nodded. "I feel pretty good. Is that voices I hear down there?"

Steve glanced back at the door. "Yeah. The guys knew I wanted to be a part of the investigation so Norm arranged to bring over a box of our old case files. Everyone's down there – we're going through them looking for something, anything –"

"Ask them up," Mike interrupted him.

"What?"

"Do you think they'd like to come up?"

"Are you kidding? Now that they know you're awake, I'm gonna have a hard time keeping them down there."

Mike grinned. "I'd really like to see them. Ask them up."

"You got it." Steve went to the top of the stairs. "Hey, guys, you wanna come up and say hi to Mike?"

Mike chuckled at the sudden increase in the volume of voices from the lower floor and then what sounded like a small herd of elephants ascending the staircase.

Steve re-entered the room and crossed to the far side of the bed to make more room. The five homicide detectives stood near the doorway in a huddle, grinning, all eyes on the occupant of bed.

Mike glanced at Steve and chuckled. "You guys look like a bunch of kids in the principal's office. You can come a little closer, you know. I still don't bite."

Healey was the first one to the bed, and he shook Mike's hand vigorously. "Jesus, Mike, it's so great to see you. You really had us worried there."

"It's good to see you too, Dan." Healey backed away so Tanner could step forward. He too shook Mike's hand.

"Wow, you look great, all things considered. I thought you were gonna look a lot worse. Glad I was wrong."

"So am I," said Mike with a grin.

Lessing was next. "Mike – and no offense, Norm," he said with a quick glance over his shoulder and a sly grin, "we really need you back in the office." Everyone laughed as Healey elbowed Haseejian, who was glaring good-naturedly at his colleagues.

As a laughing Lessing backed away, there was a hesitation as Taylor seemed reluctant to step forward. With a push from Haseejian, he was propelled closer to the bed. He took Mike's hand and shook it. "It's good to see you looking so well, sir," he said stiffly.

Mike smiled warmly, knowing the rookie detective was still a little in awe of his superior officer. "Mike, Ryan, I've told you – it's Mike."

"Yes, sir… I mean, yes, Mike," he fumbled.

Mike glanced over his shoulder at Steve. "He only calls me 'sir' when he's mad at me," he explained to the young assistant inspector.

"Surprisingly, that's more often than you'd think," Steve added dryly. Everyone laughed, even Ryan eventually.

Healey put a friendly hand on Taylor's shoulder as the young man stepped back. Haseejian approached the bed and his face turned serious. He shook Mike's hand and studied his face. "I'm glad you're going to be okay, boss," he said, "this city wouldn't be the same without you."

Mike squeezed Haseejian's hand. He knew what the Armenian detective had done for Steve in the hospital those first hours after the shooting, when things were still in chaos and no one knew what the final outcome was going to be. Mike's eyes shifted slightly in Steve's direction, a move that only Haseejian caught. "Thank _you_, Norm," he said quietly.

And both men knew exactly what he meant.


	9. Chapter 9

The tension in the room was so thick it could almost be seen. The two men were sitting on either side of the table; they hadn't made eye contact in a very long time. Neither was moving.

Finally the younger one exhaled loudly. "Anytime tonight…." he hissed quietly.

The older man refused to meet his eyes. "If I had two hands, we'd be playing Hearts and I'd have your ass in a sling."

"Yeah, well, we're playing chess. Would you make a move before I petrify over here."

Mike glanced up, eyes dark and threatening, and then reached for his bishop. He was just about to pick it up when Steve said quietly, "Do you really want to do that?"

Mike froze, and when he looked up again, his opponent met his glare with a grin and bouncing eyebrows. "It's a good thing for you I can't move very fast right now."

Steve chuckled. As he glanced at the clock on the stove, he stood up. "I'll get us another cup of coffee while you reconsider that move. Besides, she should be calling any minute now."

Mike looked at the clock as well. "Jeez, you're right."

"You up for this?" Steve asked as he poured fresh coffee into their cups and got the milk from the fridge.

"Don't have much of a choice, do I?"

They were in the Stone kitchen. Steve had driven Mike home about two hours earlier. The trip from Steve's bedroom to the Potrero house had been a long and painful one for the senior detective, the many stairs taxing what little strength he had. After a quick nap, and to keep him awake and sharp, Steve had suggested a chess game, and the gambit had worked.

Steve had just put their cups down on the table when the kitchen wall phone rang. With his partner's help, Mike stood and crossed to the phone, picking it up on the second ring.

As Mike listened, Steve brought a chair over so he could sit.

"Yes, I will," Mike said, then, "Sweetheart, how are you? Where are you?...Belgium! Wow, that's great."

Steve hovered as the conversation continued, father and daughter catching up with each others lives. From what he could hear, Jeannie and her girlfriends were having a great time backpacking through Europe and all was well.

"Yes…yes, we did have a shooting here. You read it in the international papers, hunh?" Mike looked at Steve. "Yeah, yeah, some of the guys got hit and we lost three, sweetheart… Yeah. You remember Charlie Bidwell? Your Mom and I used to visit Charlie and his wife Maureen?... Yeah, yeah, Charlie was killed…yes…yes, thank you."

Steve was watching his partner closely, but Mike seemed to be holding it together very well. "No, Steve and I are fine, really. We're working on the case. As a matter of fact, Steve is here with me right now, we've taken a break to have some dinner. Here, you wanna talk to him?"

Mike looked at Steve and mouthed, 'Take the phone.' Into the receiver he said, "Here he is, sweetheart."

As Steve took the receiver, Mike slumped in the chair and wrapped his right arm around his chest, closing his eyes. "Jeannie!" Steve said brightly into the receiver, keeping a worried eye on his partner but keeping the worry out of his tone.

The excited young voice on the other end of the line was a joyful respite from the horrifying events of the past week, and as he exchanged news and banter with her his stare never left her father, who was doing his best to rally himself.

After several minutes, Mike felt he had regained enough strength and looked up at Steve and nodded. Steve nodded back, then said into the receiver, "Jeannie, look, I gotta go – Mike and I have to get back to the office. Yeah, I'll talk to you in a week or so. You take care and have fun, you hear… Okay, here's your Dad." He handed the receiver to Mike.

"Okay, sweetheart, you heard Steve, we have to go… Yeah. So where are you off to next?… Germany? That should be interesting. Good for you… Yeah, honey, do me a favour? You have to try some of that famous Belgian chocolate and tell me if it's better than our own Ghirardelli, okay?" Mike chuckled, then winced. Steve caught his arm. Mike nodded that he was okay.

"Okay, sweetheart, I have to go… Yeah, same time next week… Unh hunh, I'll be waiting by the phone, as always….Okay…okay….I love you too, sweetheart. You take care… Bye bye." With a tired sigh, Mike handed the receiver to Steve, slumping in the chair once again.

"Good job," Steve said after he hung up the phone.

Mike smiled wearily. "Whew, that took more out of me than I thought it would. It's a lot of work trying to sound normal."

Steve chuckled. "Just sit here. I'm gonna clean up and then I'll get you out to the car and we'll go home. You're gonna need your strength for tomorrow."

# # # # #

"Stand up."

Mike was sitting on the side of the bed, in navy blue pants and a white t-shirt. His left arm was no longer strapped across his chest; he was holding it down, stiffly, at his side. With a wince, he got slowly to his feet.

Steve reached behind him with the dark blue shirt and Mike slid his right arm though the armhole. Steve moved to Mike's left side, and lowered the shirt to below Mike's hand. He slipped the hand into the armhole, lifted the shirt up and settled it over his shoulders. Standing in front of his partner, Steve flipped up the shirt collar and began doing up the buttons.

Both men were silent, sombre. Steve was already dressed in his dark blue uniform, his tie loosened and top button undone. Their service hats and "Ike" jackets were lying at the foot of the bed.

Finished doing up the buttons on Mike's shirt, and leaving the top one undone, he tucked the shirt into Mike's pants and did up the belt. He then took a pre-knotted black tie from around his own neck and reached up to slip it over Mike's head, settling it around the collar and then turning the collar down. He left the tie loose as well.

With a small smile, he said quietly, "You've been lying down so much lately, I'd almost forgotten how tall you are."

He was rewarded with a tiny returned smile that unfortunately didn't reach his partners eyes.

"Do you want your watch on?" Steve asked quietly.

Mike shook his head slightly. "No point. I can't lift my arm to look at it anyway."

Steve nodded, then took a step back and looked at his companion. "I think we're ready."

"You head on down; I just want to make a quick stop."

Steve picked up their hats and jackets and headed out of the room and down the stairs. Mike walked slowly into the bathroom, turned on the light and shut the door. He stood in front of the sink, put his right hand on the vanity top and leaned forward, letting his head drop. After several seconds, he raised his head and stared at his reflection in the mirror.

He took a deep breath and straightened up. He held his right hand out; it was shaking slightly. He made a fist, and closed his eyes. He took another deep breath, opened his eyes, opened the door and snapped off the light.

Steve was waiting at the front door, their hats and jackets in his hands, as Mike made his way slowly and stiffly down the stairs. "Norm's here," Steve let him know.

Mike nodded. Steve opened the front door and they exited. As Steve turned to lock the door, he said quietly, "It might help if you kept your left hand in your pocket."

"Yeah, good idea," Mike agreed, grimacing as his lifted his left hand slightly to slide it into his pants pocket, keeping his elbow close to his side.

Haseejian, also dressed in his dress blues, pushed away from where he was leaning against the front fender of the tan LTD and stood straight. He watched his superior officer's slow progress down the stairs, relieved to see the older man on his feet and mobile.

Steve was staying close, in case his assistance was needed. When the partners reached the sidewalk, Haseejian snapped to attention and saluted. "Good morning, sir."

Steve almost laughed, until he saw the look in the sergeant's eyes. This was not the joking, jovial Haseejian he knew so well; the man standing in front of them now was a concerned and heavyhearted police sergeant trying his best to hold it together on what was probably going to be the hardest day of their professional lives.

Mike's eyes softened as he raised his right hand and returned the salute. "Good morning, Sergeant. And thank you."

"Yes, sir." Haseejian opened the front passenger door. Mike turned to sit heavily, then swung his legs into the car, all the while holding his breath. At his nod, Haseejian shut the door.

Steve reached out and grabbed Haseejian's forearm, catching his attention. He smiled and nodded, and Haseejian smiled back.

Steve got into the back, putting the hats and jackets on the seat beside him, while Haseejian got behind the wheel. As he turned the car on and shifted into drive, he glanced across the front seat.

The lieutenant has put his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes. But Haseejian knew that the pain he was feeling right now wasn't physical.


	10. Chapter 10

It was a beautiful, bright, sunshine-filled day, with very little breeze and no clouds in the sky.

The crowds of uniformed police officers could be seen from blocks away as the unmarked tan sedan approached the Cathedral Hill neighbourhood in downtown San Francisco. Groups of patrolmen and officers parted as the car drew closer to light grey, cross-shaped, saddle roofed St. Mary's Cathedral.

Norm Haseejian scanned the masses around them, trying to locate the familiar face he knew would be there. Finally he saw him – Dan Healey was standing in a vacant parking spot near the church's side entrance. Healey spotted the car and waved, then guided Haseejian into the parking space.

Haseejian glanced across the front seat. He knew how much Mike hated special treatment but the lieutenant, who hadn't moved since they left the Union Street apartment, hadn't seemed to notice. Haseejian glanced into the rearview mirror and met Steve's eyes; the young inspector gave him a brief smile and a nod.

Healey opened the passenger side door. "Good morning, sir," he said to Mike, as Steve exited the back of the car.

Mike turned stiffly in the seat so he could put both feet on the ground before standing. "'Morning, Dan," he said quietly, not meeting the sergeant's eyes.

Healey glanced at Steve, who nodded an 'It's okay.' Healey returned the nod and backed away. Steve grabbed Mike's right forearm and helped him stand.

As Mike faced straight ahead, expressionless, Steve did up the top button of his dark blue shirt, then tightened the tie into place. He reached into the back of the sedan and pulled out a jacket. Right arm in the sleeve, Steve eased Mike's left hand out of his pocket and gently slid the jacket up and over his shoulders, then buttoned it. He pulled two white gloves out of the right pocket of Mike's jacket.

Mike took the gloves from his partner with an acknowledging nod, and carefully put them on. Finished, Steve handed him his service hat, then reached back into the sedan for his own jacket and hat.

By this time, the other members of the homicide unit had gathered around, all of them in their dress blues, all of them quiet and sober.

Healey moved closer to Mike. "Ah, sir," he said formally, "they have two seats reserved for you and Steve inside the Cathedral. You'll enter after the coffins arrive."

"I'm not going in," Mike said flatly.

Healey was taken aback, but quickly collected himself. "Sir, they have an area reserved for you and the other –" he was going to say 'victims' but stopped himself, "uh, the others. Everyone is here except Bob and Roy, who are still in the hospital."

"I understand that, Sergeant, but I don't wish to join them. I prefer to stay out here."

Steve, who was standing behind Mike and within Healey's field of vision, shook his head at his colleague, with eyebrows raised. Healey opened his mouth to protest once again, but thought better of it. He nodded. "Very well, sir."

Haseejian stepped forward. "Lieutenant, there is a great concern today for security. As we still have no leads on who is responsible for this, and no-one's taken credit for it, it's possible that members of the force are still targets." He motioned towards the nearby rooftops, where sharpshooters could be seen. "Sir, for your protection, we request, then, that you remain with us," he gestured at the Homicide detectives gathered around them, "throughout the day."

Mike looked at Haseejian evenly. Then with a nod, he said, "Thank you, Sergeant."

Steve stepped in front of his partner, slipping something out of his pocket. He had thought that Mike might want to remain outside the cathedral, so he had come prepared. "Ah, Mike," he said quietly, "I got you these…you know, in case…" He held out a pair of very dark glasses.

Mike looked down at the dark glasses, then up at his young friend and, to Steve's relief, a small smile appeared. "Thank you," he said quietly as he took the glasses and put them on.

Healey glanced at his watch. "The hearses should be arriving any minute. We'd better get into position."

As a group, with Mike in their midst, the homicide detectives took their places to one side of the front walkway of the cathedral. By Tanner's estimate, there were over 3,000 police officers present, from departments across northern California, as well as from Los Angeles, Las Vegas, Denver, Seattle, and other jurisdictions from nearly states. There were hundreds of motorcycles and a few dozen mounted police officers.

SFPD officers who recognized Mike and wished to convey their respect or best wishes, were quietly and politely intercepted by his colleagues and turned away.

A hush fell over the huge crowd as three black limousines pulled up, and from out of the crowd, the Mayor and Chief of Police appeared on the sidewalk. The back doors of the three limos were opened simultaneously, and the three families emerged.

Steve, who was standing beside his partner, glanced over. Mike was staring at Maureen Bidwell and her two grown children, Karen and Scott, as they joined with the other families, the Mayor and the Chief.

The three limos pulled away and were replaced by three black hearses. When the pallbearers had removed the three coffins, the drone of the chanter of a bagpipe could be heard, and everyone snapped to attention, saluting as, following the bagpiper and honour guard, the three coffins were carried with heartbreaking solemnity into the cathedral.

Mike stiffened even more as Charlie Bidwell's coffin passed in front of their position, and from the corner of his eye, Steve could see his partner's right hand, saluting, begin to shake slightly. Slowly, inconspicuously, Steve put his left hand lightly on Mike's back, offering support.

Cordons of uniformed officers followed the coffins into the cathedral. A series of speakers had been placed in strategic locations around the exterior of the church, to broadcast the service to those outside. Standing at ease, the hundreds of officers, and the civilians present, listened in rapt silence to the many speakers - departmental, civic and family – who spoke about the bravery, loyalty and strength of character of the three deceased officers.

Mike never wavered. Steve and the others kept a watchful, concerned eye on him throughout, but he continued to stare straight ahead, showing no sign of discomfort or fatigue. Steve knew the pain he was in and could only marvel at the strength, both physical and emotional, that his partner continued to show.

Almost ninety minutes later, the doors of the cathedral reopened. The crowd once again snapped to attention as the bagpiper led the sombre procession out of the church. To the harrowing strains of "Amazing Grace", the three coffins were borne out of the cathedral towards the hearses.

Steve glanced quickly at his partner and froze slightly. Though he could only see Mike in profile, and though Mike's blank expression had not changed, silent tears were coursing down his cheeks and dripping from his chin. Steve put his left hand once again on the small of Mike's back, this time a little firmer.

With the coffins back in the hearses and the families in the limos, the final journey of the fallen officers began. As the hearses and limos pulled away from the cathedral, hundreds of police motorcycles fell into place behind them, followed by dozens of police cars representing the various departments present.

The ceremony over, the huge crowd at the cathedral began to disperse.

Haseejian turned to Mike and Steve. He began to ask them what they wished to do next when Mike cut him off. "Sergeant, would you be able to drive us to the cemetery?"

"Mike," Steve stepped in, "I think we should go home. You're not supposed –"

Mike turned as quickly as he could to face his young partner. Steve stopped in mid-sentence and waited while Mike took off the dark glasses. "I'm going to the cemetery." His tone was unwavering and his voice strong. Mike turned to Haseejian. "I would appreciate it very much, Sergeant, if you would drive me there."

"Um, yes sir." Haseejian glanced at Healey and the others, who had backed off.

With a frustrated sign, Steve reluctantly followed Mike and Haseejian back to the sedan. Their journey to Holy Cross was made in silence, as they caught up and followed the long line of police cars, lights on and sirens blaring, that trailed the hearses.

One of the hearses turned off at a certain point. Haseejian glanced across the front seat and into the rearview mirror. "Captain Collins was a war veteran. He's being buried at the National Cemetery," he said by way of explanation.

Haseejian parked as close to the cemetery as he could; with the number of people it was impossible to get very near and he hated having to make Mike walk so far. But the lieutenant couldn't be dissuaded and Steve and he stayed as close as possible as the tall lieutenant strode across the cemetery grounds towards the burial plots.

Bidwell and Donner would be buried near each other, so both internments were to be held simultaneously. The three homicide officers positioned themselves closer to the Bidwell plot, again standing at ease as the ceremony proceeded.

Everyone flinched slightly at the three-volley salute. The honour guard surrounded the caskets and, as the melancholy chords of 'Taps' drifted over the silent crowd, the American flags were folded with military precision before being presented to the widows.

Charlie Bidwell's flag had been handed over to Jack Elliott, whose emotionless expression was partially hidden behind his dark glasses.

Stiffly, almost robotically, Elliott approached Maureen Bidwell with the folded flag, leaned forward, and put it into her hands. As the grief-stricken widow hugged the flag to her chest, Elliott turned to look into the crowd.

Steve took an involuntary half-step backward as Elliott looked straight at him. And though Elliott's expression didn't change, Steve felt a chill wash over him that he knew was irrational. As Elliott turned away, Steve took a quick look around him; no one else, and especially not Mike, had seemed to notice the little disturbing exchange.

To the haunting bagpipe tribute "Going Home", the ceremony ended and the mourners began to disperse. Mike turned stiffly to Steve and Haseejian. "Let's go," he said quietly.

Steve nodded towards Maureen Bidwell. "Don't you want to –?"

Mike shook his head. "No, let's just go," he said sadly.

# # # # #

They climbed the stairs to the second floor slowly. It had been a long and exhausting day.

"I'll be in in a minute," Mike said tiredly as he walked into the bathroom.

Steve continued into the bedroom, turned the covers down and laid out Mike's pajamas. He was worried that the exertions had taken their toll on the older man.

When Mike walked into the bedroom, Steve could see he had washed his face, removing any evidence of his tears. Mike smiled affectionately at his young companion. "I'm ready for bed," he said, and Steve smiled back.

"I bet you are. Sit down; I'll do most of the work." Steve started to undo Mike's tie and shirt, the jacket, hat and gloves having been removed in the car. "I think you'll sleep easier if we strap up your arm again; what do you think?"

Mike nodded slowly. As Steve anchored Mike's left arm across his chest and helped him into pajamas, the older man got quieter and his stare turned inward, unfocused. By the time Steve helped him lie back against the pillows and get settled, he seemed almost comatose.

Steve said on the edge of the bed. "You want something to eat?"

Mike stared straight ahead, but he shook his head slowly.

"You sure? You haven't had anything since breakfast and it's dinnertime."

Again Mike shook his head, then closed his eyes.

Steve watched him for several long beats, then got up slowly. He closed the curtains against the summer sun, then went to the closet and got some things out and did the same at the dresser. Leaving the door open and turning the hall light on, he retreated down to the living room.

A half hour later, dressed in a t-shirt and jeans, barefoot, and with a coffee cup in hand, he returned to the bedroom. Mike eyes were closed, his breaths regular and relaxed, his right hand resting on his stomach, but Steve couldn't tell if he was awake or asleep.

Steve pulled the armchair close to the right side of the bed and curled himself into it. He sipped the coffee, thinking back over the day. He thought he knew why Mike had refused to go into the cathedral, and it worried him.

And he thought of Jack Elliott. He'd still not found the time to talk to Rudy Olsen and promised himself he would try to do so tomorrow, so he would know how to proceed. He tried to put himself in Elliott's shoes once more; how he would have felt and behaved today, if, as Elliott had said, he had buried Mike.

Steve shuddered and looked down. He rested the warm cup against his forehead and tried to force the disturbing thoughts from his mind.

He raised his head slowly and looked at his partner. Though he was still facing the ceiling, Mike's eyes were open. Slowly, his right hand slid off his stomach and across the covers towards his young companion.

With a warm smile, Steve reached out and slipped his hand into Mike's. He felt the older man's fingers close around his hand and squeeze. And in that touch, the reassurance of each other's continuing existence was the only thing that mattered.


	11. Chapter 11

The light knock on the door brought Captain Olsen's head up from his study of the file on his desk. His frown turned quickly into a smile;

Steve Keller was standing in the doorway. "Got a minute?" the inspector asked.

"Of course," Olsen said as he sat back and indicated a chair in front of his desk. "Take a seat."

Steve returned the smile as he slumped into the chair, crossed his legs and smoothed down his tie.

Olsen's eyes dropped down to the file. "Just give me a second," he said slowly as he found his spot, made a notation, then closed the file. As he put it aside, he looked up at his junior officer. "What can I do for you?"

Steve sighed loudly. "Ah, I'm not really sure, Rudy. I, ah –"

"How's Mike doing?" Olsen interrupted. "I really must get over there and see him."

"Mike's doing great… I think," said Steve with a slight frown.

"What do you mean 'you think'?" Olsen matched the frown.

"Well, he's been pretty well unresponsive since we got home yesterday. He's been sleeping almost constantly and he wouldn't eat anything last night or this morning. I just –"

"Yesterday?" Olsen interrupted again, his frown deepening. "He was at the funeral?"

Steve looked surprised. "Yeah, we both were."

"Well, I didn't see either of you. You weren't in the church; I saw the empty chairs. What, were you outside?"

Steve nodded. "Mike wouldn't go in, so we stood outside the entire time. We even went to Holy Cross for the internment, you know, for Charlie. Ah, we didn't see you there."

"No," Olsen glanced down at his desk, "I went to the National for the Collins internment." He paused and looked up at Steve. "Why didn't you and Mike come into the church?"

"Well, that's one of things I want to talk to you about."

Olsen sat back and folded his arms.

"Rudy, I'm not sure I know what's going on with him, but I have a feeling it goes back to that little incident we had in the hospital. I'm thinking he still feels he's responsible for Charlie dying that day."

"The keys," said Olsen, nodding slowly.

Steve leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees. "Yeah, those damn keys."

Olsen sighed. "I was afraid of that. Survivor's guilt. I've seen it before, especially during the war. Look, Steve, do you think it might be a good idea to have Lenny make a visit – "

Steve sat back quickly and almost laughed. "Ah, no, that's not a good idea, not right now."

Olsen smiled in spite of himself. "Okay, then how about you talk to Lenny, see if there's anything you could do, or say, that might help Mike get through this. I'm positive Lenny's had to deal with something like this before; he may have some ideas."

"That I can do – but putting Lenny in a room with Mike right now, not gonna happen," Steve said with a chuckle. "Anyway, I just wanted to keep you in the loop about Mike. Physically, he's doing great. I still can't believe it." He shook his head in awe. "He's having a bit of a set-back today because of yesterday, but I made him promise me this morning that he wasn't to get out of bed in the next two days, except to go to the bathroom." Steve chucked again. "I told him if I caught him out of bed, I would handcuff his good arm to the bedpost tomorrow morning. I actually got a laugh out of him."

Olsen laughed and smiled. "You said Mike was 'one of the things'; what's the other?"

Steve looked down at the carpet and then up into his superior's concerned stare. "Jack Elliott."

"Ah," said Olsen slowly, his smile disappearing. "What do you want to know?"

Steve told Olsen about the encounter in the Galaxy in the parking garage, and Elliott's demeanor at the cemetery. "I don't know how to respond to him, Rudy, and I was hoping you might shed some light on the situation. Mike's asked me to keep an eye on him, but he's so angry with Mike, and in turn me, that I can't even get him to talk to me…civilly."

Olsen stayed silent for several seconds, then leaned forward, putting his forearms on the desk. "Close the door," he said quietly.

With a concerned look, Steve got up and shut the office door then returned to the chair.

"Steve, I know you've heard over the years that Charlie and Jack were the 'Mike and Steve' of Robbery, and in many ways they were. But there's a big difference.

"You and Mike, you have a special bond, everyone knows that – every once in awhile a partnership forms that just seems …pre-destined. I know you always hear that you two are like father and son, but I never bought into that – I know of too many fathers and sons who don't get along."

Steve nodded knowingly, even as he couldn't contain a self-conscious but pleased smile.

"No, you two have something deeper than that, like two sides of the same coin." Olsen took a beat, as if searching for the right words. "Charlie and Jack were…different. They were close, very close; there's no denying that. But Jack…well, Jack has a…flaw, a potentially fatal flaw…when it comes to his career."

Steve's frown deepened.

Olsen took a deep breath before continuing. "What I'm about to tell you can't leave this room, Steve; you have to promise me that."

Steve sat back. "Rudy," he said carefully, "I don't know if I can promise that – I don't keep anything from Mike, you know that."

Olsen nodded. "You're right, and it's not fair to ask you to do that. If you feel you have to tell Mike, then go ahead, but only if you feel he needs to know, you understand?"

At the young man's nod, Olsen continued. "Jack has a gambling problem. And I'm not talking a Saturday night poker game with the boys and occasionally going to the track to put down a few bets or calling a bookie. I'm talking binge weekends in Vegas and markers totaling about $50,000."

Steve leaned back in the chair. "Jesus…" he muttered under his breath.

"It started about two years ago; that's when we found out about it… Well, Charlie found out about it. I don't know how and I never asked him, but Charlie tried to handle it himself at first. He kept Jack's secret and tried to help him out financially; he even took out a second mortgage on his house. Jack was getting threats; it was pretty ugly.

"From what Charlie told me, Jack promised to straighten up and give up gambling and pay off his debts, and he really did it at first. The department knew nothing about it; Jack got his promotion to inspector, he was doing a great job, their partnership was working out wonderfully."

Olsen took a beat. "And then about two months ago, Charlie came to me. Jack had fallen off the wagon – he was going back to Vegas and he had racked up another $30,000 in debt. Charlie was at the end of his rope; he didn't know what to do. Maureen had threatened to expose everything if Charlie gave Jack one more cent; Charlie felt his back was to the wall. He didn't want to rat on his partner, but he didn't have a choice.

"He had given Jack an ultimatum – quit gambling cold turkey, and Charlie wouldn't go to the brass. This was about six weeks ago. I talked to Charlie about it not long after that. Jack was promising once again to straighten up and fly right. The last time I talked to Charlie about it, he said Jack seemed to be keeping his word. Charlie had talked to his bank manager and managed to secure a loan for Jack that he could handle; things seemed to be going good."

Olsen paused, and his expression turned melancholy. "And then last Monday happened. When Charlie died, Jack not only lost a partner, he lost the one person in his life who truly loved him for all his frailties and all his short-comings, the one person who was helping him get his life back on track."

Steve was staring at the carpet, trying to process all this troubling information.

"Steve," Olsen continued as the young man's head came up, "Jack knew about Charlie's health. Maureen didn't lie to Mike. Jack knew. But as with the other aspects of his life, he couldn't accept it. It seemed to be easier for him to deny it; deny the reality that Charlie wasn't well and that he was going to retire soon. He couldn't conceive of Charlie not being his partner anymore. He was scared."

Olsen leaned forward and put his elbows on the desk. "And now Charlie's gone. I don't think it comes as a surprise that Jack would try to find a scapegoat for his anger, and he's chosen Mike, if only for the innocent reason that Mike bent down to pick up Charlie's keys. And for some reason, that makes Mike responsible, makes him the bad guy in Jack's mind."

Olsen sat back and let the silence lengthen as Steve mulled over what he had just learned. Eventually the younger man looked up. "Rudy, do you think Jack's capable of…? I mean, I know he hasn't done anything as of yet to justify taking his service revolver from him…but…"

Olsen nodded gravely. "Believe me, those thoughts have been going through my head as well, but I think we might be jumping to the wrong conclusions here. Look, why don't you track him down, try to have a talk with him and see where things stand, and we'll make a decision after that. How does that sound? Besides, he can't get to Mike right now, can he? Mike's at your place, right? I don't think Jack even knows that."

Steve straightened up in the chair and glanced at his watch. "Speaking of Mike, I should get back there. He better be hungry when I get home or I'm gonna force-feed him." His tone, though playful, was laced with real concern.

Olsen stood as Steve did. "Give him my best, will ya, and tell him I'll be around to see him soon."

"I will." Steve reached across the desk and shook Olsen's hand. "Thanks, Rudy. You've given me a lot to think over. I'll call around a little later and see if I can locate Jack, try to talk to him tomorrow."

# # # # #

Though he felt almost foolish doing so, Steve scanned the street for any unusual cars as he parked the Porsche in front of his apartment and got out. He wished he knew what kind of car Jack owned.

He made a quick phone call before taking the stairs to the second floor.

Walking into the bedroom, he was pleasantly surprised to see Mike wide awake and partially sitting up. He grinned and was just about to speak when Mike beat him to it.

"Hi."

"Hi yourself," Steve chuckled as he crossed to the bed. "How do you feel?"

"Tired," Mike admitted, "but better than last night. Yesterday took everything out of me."

"I'm not surprised. It was a hell of a long day."

Mike nodded. "Thank you…for yesterday."

"For what?" Steve chuckled, hoping to keep the mood light. "All I did was get you dressed and into the car, something parents always do when they send their children off to school, I think."

Mike rolled his eyes and smiled sardonically. It felt like they were whistling past the graveyard, but it was something they both needed to do at the moment.

Steve sat on the edge of the bed. "So, now that you're back in the land of the semi-conscious, are you the least bit hungry? It's been over twenty-four hours, you know."

Mike nodded wryly. "Yeah, I'm quite aware of that. As a matter of fact, I could chew my way through the hide of an elephant right now, I think."

Steve laughed. "Oh, that's a good one, I'll have to remember that. But, try as you might, I'm still ahead of you." At Mike's confused stare, he continued, "I phoned for a pizza a few minutes ago. Large, all dressed, anchovies on one half – should be here in a little over half an hour. Think you can wait that long?" he finished with a grin.

Mike wagged his right forefinger at him and laughed carefully. "You think you're so smart…"

Steve slapped him on the leg and stood up. "I'll go put on a pot of coffee."

As he got to the door, he heard Mike call his name and he turned. The smile was gone and Mike's expression was serious and concerned. "What's going on between you and Jack?"


	12. Chapter 12

"What's going on between you and Jack?"

Steve froze for a split second before answering, "Nothing. Why?"

Mike eyed him skeptically. "You were very vague the other day when I asked you if you saw him. You just said he was taking it hard."

"That's right," Steve said carefully.

"So what was yesterday all about?"

To his credit, Steve's expression didn't change, but his mind was yelling, 'You sonofabitch, you saw it!' "What do you mean?"

"When he looked at you – I saw you take a step back. What was that all about?"

"Oh, that," Steve tried to sound casual, "it was just a shock when he looked into the crowd and straight at me. I wasn't expecting it."

"Uh-hunh," grunted Mike, sounding unconvinced but deciding to stop the interrogation for the time being. Steve obviously didn't want to talk about it; he would wait for a more advantageous time.

Steve smiled as he pointed toward the door. "Can I go?" he asked with a chuckle.

Mike nodded slowly, brow furrowed. "Yeah," he said lightly, with a slight smile. "But could you make it a ginger ale instead of coffee?"

"Sure." Steve turned and headed down the stairs, his heart pounding, shaking his head.

# # # # #

The pizza box and two glasses, one with ginger ale, the other with beer, were sitting on top of the tray table on the bed; Mike's plate lay in his lap, Steve held his in one hand.

Steve had managed to scarf down three pieces; Mike only two. But Steve was happy to see his partner finally eat.

Steve had brought Mike up to date on the status of the investigation, as little as there was to tell. The only physical evidence they had were the bullets. There had been twenty-three shots fired; thirteen had hit their targets. They were all forty-four calibre and ballistics had shown they had come from four different guns.

Because of the composition of the lands and grooves, the identification of the guns had been narrowed down to two: a short-barreled Smith & Wesson M29 and/or a short-barreled Ruger Blackhawk. Four guns, two shooters; one shooting high as evidenced by the head shots and one shooting at waist level.

The task force had gone over every case that the eleven officers had been involved with for the past ten years; when that yielded nothing they decided to go back even further.

Everyone in the building at the time had been interviewed; the cordon that had been thrown up around 850 Bryant in the immediate aftermath of the shooting had resulted in thirty-five interviews with people on the streets immediately adjacent. But again, nothing had stood out.

CI's and snitches had been approached, but there was no word on the street, not even a false claim of responsibility. The frustration level among the task force was very high, and tempers were starting to flare. It was over a week since the carnage and they had gotten nowhere.

"So what are they gonna try next?" Mike asked as he shifted position slightly, and grimaced.

Steve put down his glass and frowned. "Why are you wincing?" he asked. "That's about the tenth time you've done it since we started eating. Is your chest bothering you?"

Trying to downplay it, Mike shook his head. "No, my chest feels fine. It's my back."

"What do you mean? Are you stiff from lying down all the time?"

"No, it's the wound. It's bothering me a bit."

Steve started slightly. He'd almost forgotten that there was an exit wound in his partner's back. He stood up, picked up the tray table and put it on the floor. "Roll onto your right side," he instructed as he removed some of the pillows Mike was lying against.

Reluctantly, Mike gingerly shifted onto his side. Steve crossed behind him and knelt on the bed. As he pulled the pajama top up, he froze. "Jesus, Mike…"

"What?"

The gauze bandage that was covering the wound was discoloured with blood and a yellowish discharge. Steve tried to keep his voice neutral. "I'm gonna have to change the bandage. They gave me some stuff when we left the hospital. Let me see what we have." He was trying to recall if he had the phone number of a doctor who would make housecalls; he remembered that Peters had given him his number, and he thought he had it in his wallet. Hopefully, though, he wouldn't need it.

The paper bag of hospital supplies was on the floor beside the bed; Steve picked it up and rifled through it, finding what he needed. He took out some alcoholic wipes and a polyurethane bandage. He exited to the bathroom and washed his hands; with a towel over his shoulder, he returned and got back onto the bed.

"This might hurt a bit; are you ready for it?" he asked.

Surprisingly, he heard Mike chuckle. "It can't be any worse that what I've been through already this past week."

"Let's hope," Steve said lightly as he gently lifted a corner of the surgical tape and eased the gauze off the wound. He tried to keep the concern out of his voice. "It looks a little infected but not too bad." He dropped the gauze into the garbage can. "I have to clean it; sorry, but it's gonna hurt."

"Do I have your permission to chew on a pillow?" Mike asked with a smile.

Steve chuckled in spite of himself. "Go right ahead." He cleaned the wound as gently as he could, but he still felt Mike stiffen with pain under his touch. "Done," he said eventually, and was pleased to see the older man relax slightly.

The polyurethane bandage was about the size of a man's hand; Steve took it out of the packaging and peeled the strips off of the adhesive edges. "Brace yourself; this might hurt a bit."

Mike took as deep a breath as he could and held it. Steve placed the bandage over the wound and pressed the edges down as gently as he could. Satisfied the dressing was in firmly in place, he sat back. "Done.

It should start to feel better soon."

Mike lifted his head slightly. "Feels better already."

Steve pulled the pajama top down and slid off the bed. Mike slowly rolled onto his back again, his eyes closed, breath held. When his wound made contact with the pillow, he froze for a second, then relaxed, opened his eyes and looked at his partner. "Wow, that feels a lot better. Thanks."

Steve smiled. "You're welcome. Sorry about that – I shouldn't have forgotten about it."

"Hey, I almost forgot about it too. Sorry about the teeth marks in the pillow," he chuckled, then let his head fall back and exhaled loudly.

Steve picked up the tray table from the floor. "I'm gonna clear out and let you get some sleep." He had just reached the door when Mike stopped him.

"Steve, can you do me a favour tomorrow?"

"Sure, name it?"

"I'm getting pretty bored just lying here, and I know I can't help you guys out, and I also know it's against regulations – but, you told me earlier about the interviews the guys conducted with the people outside 850? If they're finished with those files, could you sneak them out and bring 'em here so I can read through them."

At Steve's concerned look, he continued, "Look, I'm not saying I'm gonna find something that someone overlooked. It's just frustrating not being able to do anything –"

"You don't have to convince me," Steve cut him off. "I'll see what I can do."

Mike smiled gratefully. "Thanks." He closed his eyes and settled back against the pillows. As Steve turned to leave the room, he heard Mike mutter, "For everything."

# # # # #

Steve spent the rest of the evening on the phone, trying to track down Jack Elliott. He spoke to Inspector Meuller in Robbery, probably the person closest to Elliott after Charlie, but he hadn't seen Elliott since the funeral either. And he had no idea where he would be.

Steve even called Maureen Bidwell, apologizing profusely for disturbing her. She was more than gracious, explaining to Steve that the last time she saw Elliott was when he handed her the flag at the cemetery. She asked about Mike, and Steve was pleased to tell her of the amazing progress his partner was making.

After a few more calls to people that he and Elliott knew mutually, Steve gave up. He knew he would have to let Olsen know what was going on. On a whim, not expecting the captain to be in his office at this late hour, he was surprised when Olsen answered the phone.

"Jeez, Rudy, I didn't think you'd be there; I was going to leave a message," Steve began, and he heard his superior chuckle.

"No rest for the wicked, right? What can I do for you, Steve?"

Steve filled Olsen in on his attempts to locate Elliott. "Rudy, I think we both know what needs to be done next, right?"

He could hear Olsen sigh on the other end of the phone. "Yeah, I know."

"Look, do you know anybody at LVPD? Someone you could ask to do this on the Q.T.?"

"Yeah, there's a couple of guys over there that owe me one. I'll see if I can get them to contact the casinos and see if they can locate him, get his ass on a plane back here. If I can't get ahold of them tonight, I'll try first thing in the morning and I'll let you know."

"Thanks, Rudy. I think this is our best option right now."

"I agree. Hey, how's Mike doing? Tell him I say 'Hi'."

Steve chuckled. "He's doing great and yes, I will say 'Hi.'"

"Finally some good news," the older man sighed, and Steve could picture his tired face.

"Thanks a lot, Rudy. You go home and get some rest; I'll see you in the morning, okay?"

"See you in the morning," Olsen replied and hung up.

Steve looked at the receiver before he put it back on the cradle. Thank god for veterans like Mike and Olsen and even Devitt, guys with years of experience and legions of contacts, on both sides of the law, that they could turn to if and when necessary.

He made a trip to the bathroom to get ready for bed. On the way in, he stepped into the bedroom for a few seconds to check on Mike, who was sleeping deeply and peacefully. Grateful, Steve completed his nightly ablutions then returned to the living room couch and settled in for the night.

# # # # #

Steve woke with a start, not sure what had disturbed him. The wind had picked up and the windows were rattling noisily. It was pitch dark outside, obviously still the middle of the night.

He sat up and listened; other than the howling wind, he could hear nothing. Still, something bothered him, so he threw off the sheet and stood up. There was some streetlamp spill coming through the front window and he could make out the shadowy images of his living room furniture.

He made he way to the stairs and started up quietly, still listening, still hearing nothing but the wind. He slowly opened the bedroom door, trying not to make any noise, and paused, then caught his breath in alarm. Laboured, wheezing, rapid breaths were coming from the bed.

Snapping on the light, Steve crossed quickly to the bed, then froze in horror. Mike lay back against the pillows, his mouth open, his eyes wide and unfocused. His chest was heaving up and down quickly, his body covered in sweat, his hair wet and matted to his forehead.

"Oh my god, Mike," Steve exhaled loudly, grabbing the older man's shoulders to raise him up. He was startled by the heat radiating from his distressed friend. "Mike! Mike!" Steve shook him, trying unsuccessfully to get a response.

Breathing heavily himself, trying to control his fear, Steve lowered Mike back onto the bed and reached for the phone on the bedside table. Lifting the receiver, he quickly dialed the police hotline number then put the receiver to his ear. "Damn!" He slammed the receiver back on the cradle; he'd unplugged the phone days before.

Reluctant to leave the room, but knowing he needed to, Steve ran back down to the living room and picked up the phone there. He checked for a tone before dialing the number again.

"Come on, come on," he muttered while the line connected and rang.

"San Francisco Emergency Hotline, how can I help -?"

"I need an ambulance sent to –"

"I'm sorry, sir, we have no ambulances available at this time," the operator cut him off.

There was a beat of stunned silence. "What? What do you mean, there are no ambulances –?"

"I'm sorry, sir, all the ambulances are engaged right now."

"Wait a minute – what? That can't be possible." Steve's voice dropped to a stunned whisper. "No, this can't – he'll die…"

"I'm sorry, sir, but there are no ambulances available at this time. You must get to a hospital on your own, or you could call a taxi, sir –"

Steve slammed the receiver down and sat frozen, stunned, for several seconds. Then he was in action. He put on his slippers and grabbed a coat lying nearby, shrugging it on quickly. He strode to the table by the door. "Where are they, where are they…?" he muttered in frustration as his hands flew over the table, lifting and looking under everything, to no avail.

"Are you looking for these?" came a familiar voice from over his shoulder and he spun quickly towards the stairs. Shocked, he took a step backward.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he gasped.

Jack Elliott stood on the first step, a rictus grin on his lips and a manic gleam in his eyes. He was holding up Steve's car keys.

Steve began to step forward. "I need help with Mike. We have to get him to –"

"Oh, I don't think so," Elliott said evenly, cutting him off. He closed his fingers around the keys and suddenly Steve became aware that Elliott's hand was covered in blood.

With a dread-filled gasp, Steve looked past Elliott up the stairs; the bedroom door was closed. "No, no, no, no," Steve repeated over and over as he looked slowly back at Elliott, who was casually tossing the keys in his right hand, chuckling quietly to himself.

"Mike!"

# # # # #

Steve shot bolt upright on the couch, bathed in sweat, gasping, dizzy and disoriented. It took several seconds to register where he was, and for the blood pounding in his ears to dissipate enough so his could hear the faint tinkling of a bell.

Getting unsteadily to his feet, holding onto the couch arm for support, he crossed slowly to the stairs. Gaining strength, he mounted the steps as fast as he could, opened the bedroom door and switched on the overhead light.

Squinting in the sudden bright illumination, Mike looked at him with concern and confusion, the bronze bell still in his hand. "Jesus, Steve, are you okay? What was that yelling about?"

Steve stood in the doorway, overwhelmingly relieved, a hand over his mouth. He was still breathing heavily. Slowly, almost sheepishly, he shook his head, "Ah, nothing … bad dream I guess."

"I guess," echoed Mike with a slight smile. He pointed at the floor. "You want to come sleep in here?"

Feeling steadier on his feet, Steve crossed to the bed. "Are you okay?" he asked seriously.

Realizing that Steve was truly shaken, Mike nodded. "Yeah, I'm good, I'm fine." He debated asking Steve what the nightmare was about but decided to wait until the light of day. "How about you?"

Steve smiled warmly, relief softening his features. "I am now." He turned for the door. "I'll let you get back to sleep."

"Thanks. Ah, a little request…?" Steve turned back at the door and met Mike's eyes with an anticipatory smile. "Next time, please don't scream out my name at the top of yours lungs – I think you took five years off my life."

"I'll keep that in mind," Steve chuckled, relaxing more and more by the second. "I'll see you in the morning," he said quietly as he turned off the light and closed the door.

He poured himself a small glass of scotch. Trying to stop his hands from shaking, he curled up on the couch in the dark. Sleep would not return easily tonight, if at all.


	13. Chapter 13

Steve's eyes opened slowly; the room was bathed in light. He started to sit up but the dull ache in his head slowed his movements. His mouth tasted stale and dry. He glanced at the coffee table, the half-filled bottle of scotch and the empty glass.

He ran a slightly shaking hand over his eyes and through his hair, trying to stop his stomach from heaving. He stumbled into the kitchen. The clock on the stove read 8:53. With robotic precision, he refilled the percolator and plugged it in, then made his way slowly and carefully upstairs to the bathroom.

After he washed his hands and face, he exited the bathroom and started down the stairs, then stopped and turned to the bedroom door. He opened it slowly and quietly, and the light spill from the hallway fell across the bed.

Mike was awake and looking towards the door. He smiled and chuckled slightly. "I was wondering when you were going to get up."

Steve stumbled a couple of steps into the room. "Sorry, ah, I, ah, really couldn't get back to sleep."

"I'm not surprised. You looked pretty shook up last night." Mike sounded concerned, his tone turning serious. He waited until the younger man nodded. "You okay?"

"Yeah, yeah," Steve nodded again, more vigorously, "I'm good. Ah, you want some breakfast? I just put the coffee on."

"Sure. Whenever you get the chance, no rush." Mike was studying his disheveled partner. "Why don't you go downstairs and get changed," he suggested, then watched as Steve seemed to pull his thoughts together and really look at him for the first time that morning.

"Right, yeah, I'll be back with breakfast," Steve said distractedly as he turned and left the room. When he returned to the bedroom almost a half hour later, it was with a tray table filled with buttered toast and two cups of coffee. He set the tray table on the bed in front of its occupant.

As he dragged the armchair closer to the bed, he felt the once-over from Mike. "You going into work?" asked the older man, eyeing the slacks, shirt and tie.

Steve sat and reached for a mug. "Yeah, I thought I go in for a few hours and see how things are going, see the guys, you know…" he answered vaguely.

"And see Jack?" added Mike casually as he picked up the other mug and took a sip.

"Yeah, if he's there." Steve grabbed a piece of toast.

Mike put down his mug and reached for a piece of toast himself. "I, ah, I thought maybe we could talk about last night," he said casually, staring at the toast in his hand before taking a bite.

Steve smiled to himself; he'd been wondering how long it would take the older man to bring up the subject.

"Or not…" Mike sighed after a beat then took another bite of toast.

Steve took a deliberate gulp of coffee before answering. "Look, I do want to talk about it, but not right now. I kinda need to sort a few things out first, okay?" He took a deep breath. "So," he continued, as he put his mug back on the tray, "how about tonight, over a bottle of beer and a big glass of ginger ale, we have 'the talk'?" He finished with a conciliatory smile.

Mike studied his young friend's face then nodded slowly. "Sounds like a good plan."

Steve leaned back, working on his second piece of toast. "How are you feeling? How's the back?"

Mike shifted slightly. "It feels great. I feel good. Really."

"Well, we're gonna have to change that bandage before I leave this morning…"

Their talk turned to more mundane matters as they shared breakfast with their customary companionable ease.

# # # # #

Mike heard the front door open and close and the chink of keys being tossed onto the side table. He glanced at the clock/radio: 6:24.

"Honey, I'm home!" Steve called in his best "Leave It To Beaver" style up the stairs.

Mike chuckled, but his chest was still too sore for him to call back down. He heard Steve climb the stairs.

"Wow, you've been busy," Steve observed from the doorway.

Mike was sitting up against a wall of pillows, his left arm still in a sling, surrounded by small piles of open files, a pad and pencils on the tray table in front of him, and a cardboard box at the foot of the bed.

Steve had come home at lunchtime with the box of files of the interviews from the people on the streets around 850 Bryant just after the shooting. He had laughingly added that about five guys had helped him put the files together and at least another 20 had been in the room when he picked up the box and left – so sneaking them out of the office had not been an issue.

Mike grinned at him over his reading glasses. "Thanks again for bringing these home."

"No problem. Anything?"

Mike shrugged. "Not yet, but it feels good to be doing something, anyway."

Steve chuckled. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine, good. Anything on your end?"

Steve shook his head, rubbing the back of his neck. "What do you think about Chinese food for dinner? I'll call for delivery?"

"Yeah, great."

Steve turned to go back downstairs. "The usual?" he asked over his shoulder. When he got no response, he turned back. Mike had already picked up a file and was studying it with a furrowed brow. Steve chuckled quietly as he continued out the door and down the stairs. "The usual," he muttered quietly to himself, nodding.

# # # # #

Steve finished putting the dirty dishes in a pile beside the sink, dried his hands on a towel and picked up the two glasses. He stepped into the living room towards the stairs then stopped short.

Wearing slippers and his dressing gown loosely over his shoulders, Mike was making his way slowly and stiffly down the stairs.

Steve quickly put the glasses on the coffee table and crossed to the foot of the stairs. "What are you doing?" he asked as he reached out to put a supporting hand on Mike's right arm.

Mike looked up with a grin. "I need a change of venue," he chuckled through gritted teeth. "No offense, but I've been in your room way too long."

Steve helped him to the couch and Mike sat heavily with a groan. He looked around the room with feigned curiosity. "I like what you've done with the place," he chuckled.

"Very funny," said Steve with a chuckle of his own as he put a glass on the coffee table in front of Mike. "Here's your ginger ale. Can you reach it?"

Mike leaned forward carefully and picked up the glass. "No problem. Thanks."

Steve picked his own glass and curled up in the armchair. He took a sip of beer then leaned on his hand, elbow braced on his knee, and looked at his partner with a wry smile. Mike had set his own glass back on the table and sat back gingerly, and was watching the younger man with whimsically upraised eyebrows.

"Well, here we are," Mike said finally.

"Yeah… so, where do we start?" Steve asked lightly.

Mike looked down at the table. "How about last night?" He looked up. "What's really going on with you and Jack?"

Steve blinked and looked away. He knew Mike was going to ask that, and he had thought about what he would say all day. He decided that, indeed, honesty was the best policy and he couldn't keep anything from Mike; but he had also told himself he wouldn't tell his partner everything. Sometimes editing the truth was the best and only option.

"Yeah, Jack," he began, "where do I start?" He took a deep breath. "Jack's having a hard time coming to terms with Charlie's death. He seems to think that, ah, that Charlie would still be alive if, ah…" He trailed off, trying to find the right words.

"If I hadn't picked up his keys, right?" Mike finished the sentence for him.

Steve looked up quickly then shook his head slightly in disbelief. Mike's perceptiveness never ceased to amaze him. He nodded. "Yeah. He didn't believe me when I told him what Maureen had told you. It was as if he didn't know." Seeing Mike's frown, he continued quickly, "He knew. I talked to Rudy, and he told me Jack knew all about Charlie's health. It seems like Jack has… other problems."

Steve told Mike about Jack's gambling addiction. Mike looked away as Steve spoke, shaking his head sadly. "I had no idea," he said softly when Steve had finished.

"Nobody did," said Steve, "and now Jack is completely on his own and he's scared and he doesn't know what to do." He took a deep breath then plowed on. "And I haven't made it any easier for him – I'm having a hard time facing him myself… I, ah, I feel guilty every time I see him…"

Mike met his eyes. "Because Charlie's dead and I'm still alive?"

When Steve's eyes finally met his partners, they were filled with a sad culpability. Finally Mike took a deep breath. "Yeah, well, you're not the only one." Slowly, he put his head against the back of the couch and closed his eyes.

Steve gave him a couple of seconds before asking, "Is that why you didn't want to go into the church?"

Mike didn't move but he smiled slightly. "That's one of the reasons, I guess. I, ah, I just haven't, you know, ah," there was a catch in his voice and he hesitated, squeezing his eyes tighter.

"It's okay," Steve said quickly, leaning forward, "it's okay. You don't have to –"

"No – no, I do… I, ah, I have to start facing this or I'm never going to get passed it." Mike took a couple of careful deep breaths. "I was in the front," he said quietly, "there were four of us up front, and I am the only one of those four that's going to walk away from all that. Because of some stupid keys…" He put his right hand over his eyes. "Why me?"

Steve barely heard the question, but he leaned further forward and put a hand lightly on Mike's knee. When there was no response, he squeezed harder, and watched as Mike took his hand away from his face and turned to look at him.

Steve smiled warmly. "For what it's worth," he said slowly and deliberately, "you'll never know how grateful I am that is _was_ you."

Mike stared at him, not moving, then with an affectionate smile, put his right hand over Steve's and squeezed.

"Mike," Steve continued quietly, "no one wishes it wasn't you, believe me. Everybody, and I mean everybody, has come up to me in the past few days and asked about how you're doing and when you're coming back. You are loved, Michael, and you are missed. And there isn't a person in the department who isn't absolutely thrilled that you are going to be coming back to work."

As he spoke, he saw the tears forming in his partner's eyes. With a mischievous smile, he leaned back, slipping his hand from under Mike's. "You know, Lenny's really pretty good at this psychology stuff," he said easily with counterfeit awe, anticipating the response.

Mike's eyes widened quickly and he sat up straighter. "Lenny? Lenny wanted you to say that to me?"

Steve started to laugh. "I'm joking, I'm joking," he said quickly, hands up in surrender. "Rudy told me to talk to him but I haven't had the time, or the inclination to be honest, to do it yet." He chuckled. "I just thought things were getting a little maudlin in here…"

Mike shook his head and smiled ruefully. "If I wasn't handicapped, you be crying 'Uncle' on the floor by now," he laughed carefully, wincing a little. Still, he realized that what Steve had said was from the heart, and deep inside he was grateful to have heard those words.

"I need another beer," Steve announced as he stood and picked up his glass. "You want another ginger ale?"

"Sure." Mike watched as Steve retreated into the kitchen with their glasses. He mulled over what his partner had said; he knew it was time to confront his fears and hopefully start to get his life back together. But he also knew that first he had to get well, and that was going to take time.

Steve put their glasses on the coffee table and sat once more in the armchair. He glanced at his watch. "I want you back in bed by nine, sir," he announced playfully, "so we have another hour or so." Knowing he could only push Mike so far right now, he turned serious. "Anything you want to talk about?"

Looking into the middle distance, Mike nodded slowly. "Yeah, ah, if you don't mind… I don't really know what happened …?"

Steve understood what he meant and nodded. He knew Mike was ready to hear, and he also knew this wasn't going to be easy. Steve picked up his glass of beer and settled back into the chair.

And while Mike sat silently, occasionally sipping the ginger ale, Steve told him everything he could remember, from the germination of the practical joke in the Homicide office, to Mike waking up in the ICU cubicle. It was midnight before either of them got to sleep.


	14. Chapter 14

"Come in," Rudy Olsen yelled after hearing the knock.

Steve Keller opened the door and charged into the room. "Hey, Rudy, have you heard about –" He stopped short when he saw that his superior officer wasn't alone. "Oh, ah, sorry, I ah …"

"Steve, I'm glad you're here. Come in and close the door."

As Steve turned back to the door to close it, he momentarily shut his eyes in frustration. Taking the other chair, he nodded at Olsen's guest. "Jack," he said evenly, "good to see you."

"Steve," Elliott acknowledged coolly, looking down and straightening his tie.

"Ah, Steve, Jack here is coming on board with the task force, and I'm hoping that you can get him up to speed with what's been going on. I'd really like it if you could 'take him under your wing', so to speak, and he can work with you on, ah, whatever it is you're working on," Olsen finished vaguely.

Steve knew exactly what Olsen meant. He wanted the two inspectors to work together so Steve could keep an eye on Elliott, and he had enough faith in Steve to know that he could put his personal biases aside and do whatever was necessary to keep the grieving Robbery inspector in line.

Glancing briefly at Elliott, Steve nodded. "Of course, great, sure. We can use all the help we can get." Steve was also well aware of Olsen's other concern – the possibility, remote as it may be, that the shooting was in some way connected to Elliott's continuing gambling problems. For the past few days, Steve had been surreptitiously working on the 'Elliott angle', as he and Olsen had come to call it. He had uncovered nothing so far, but Elliott's involvement, whether directly or indirectly, had yet to be ruled out.

"That's great," said Olsen, as he reached for a file on his desk. There was another knock on his door and he looked up in irritation. "Come in!"

The door opened and Sergeant Polanski poked his head in. "Rudy, the Chief is asking for you, like right now." He noticed the other two men in the room. "Oh, hi, Steve, Jack. Hey, Steve, how's Mike? He must be doing a lot better if you're spending more time in here," he said with a warm smile.

Olsen was out from behind his desk in a flash and across the room, grabbing Polanski by the arm and steering him out the door. "I better see what the Chief wants," he said by way of explanation, propelling Polanski into the corridor and shutting the door behind them both.

Steve looked at Elliott and smiled slightly, clearing his throat. Elliott smiled back but there was no warmth in the look. "How is Mike?" he asked perfunctorily.

"Good, good," Steve nodded. "He's still got a ways to go but he's doing really well. Thanks for asking."

"That's good." Elliott's voice almost dripped with sarcasm.

Steve took a deep breath, trying to keep his growing anger in check. "Look, Jack, it's obvious you still think Mike has something to do with Charlie's death –"

"_Something_ to do with it? He's got everything to do with it."

"Oh, what the hell are you talking about? They were both critically injured; both of them could have died. Mike survived because of where he was shot and the fact that he's in good shape, he's healthy. Charlie could have survived too, but he had too many other problems –"

"Bullshit!"

"I know you know!" Steve shouted at Elliott, not about to let the other man get the upper hand. "I talked to Rudy, I talked to Maureen Bidwell. They both told me you knew but you wouldn't accept it. There is nothing Mike, or me, can do about that!" Steve paused and took a deep steadying breath, trying to control his temper.

Staring Elliott straight in the eyes, he began again, quiet and deadly serious. "There is nothing that Mike could have done that would've changed what happened. You're going to have to accept that and move on. Because I'll be damned if you're going to get anywhere near him with this crap you're espousing right now. Do you understand me?"

The silence lengthened between them as neither moved. Then Elliott got up quickly and, without a word, left the room, slamming the door behind him.

Steve sighed loudly and slumped in the chair, running his hands through his hair. A few seconds later, he heard the door open. "Jesus, what the hell happened in here?" grumbled Olsen as he closed the door and crossed behind his desk. "Jack just flew past me in the hallway looking fit to kill. What the hell did you say to him?"

Steve sighed again and rubbed a hand over his eyes. "I guess I didn't keep my cool, Rudy. Sorry. But I'll be damned if I let that bastard keep blaming Mike for what happened to Charlie."

Olsen sank wearily into his chair. "'That bastard', hunh? Well, so much for trying to get you two to work together right now." They both snorted mirthlessly. "Do you think he might, ah…?" Olsen gestured vaguely towards the door.

Steve shook his head. "I don't think so… but he knows where Mike is now, thanks to Polanski."

"Yeah," said Olsen with a heavy sigh, shaking his head. "I just tore a strip off of that numbskull." He chuckled, and Steve joined him.

"Oh god, Rudy, what are we gonna do?" Steve asked wearily.

"Well, I think you should go back to work with the task force, and let me deal with Jack. I'll let him cool down and then I'll have another talk with him and we'll go from there. How does that sound?"

Steve nodded in agreement as he got to his feet. "Sounds good to me."

Olsen smiled suddenly. "Hey, how is Mike doing anyway?"

Steve chuckled. "Really well, and as of yesterday afternoon, wallowing like a pig in shit?"

"What?!" exclaimed Olsen with a laugh.

"I brought the files of the scene interviews home for him to go through – he was going stir crazy, which is a sure sign he's getting better – and he's gone, he's off, he's doing the Mike Stone-thing. He barely notices I'm there anymore," he finished with an affectionate chuckle.

Olsen laughed again. "Well, tell him I said hi."

# # # # #

The cherry-red '68 Mustang turned the corner onto Union and parked. The young, dark-haired driver got out and glanced up and down the street, looking for someone or something. Seemingly satisfied, he climbed the stairs to the second level of the blue clapboard building and knocked impatiently on the door.

# # # # #

Steve shut the front door behind him and tossed his keys onto the side table. He glanced at his watch. 5:10. He was home a little earlier tonight.

Halfway up the stairs, he called out, "Found anything yet?" He stepped into the bedroom and froze. The bed was empty. He'd noticed the bathroom door was open, so he knew Mike wasn't in there. "Mike?"

The blue pajamas were neatly folded up at the foot of the bed, which was still covered with files, notes and the tray table. Steve glanced at the closet, which was slightly open; Mike's pants, shirt and jacket were gone.

Frowning, he glanced at the bedside table, hoping for a note, but there was nothing there. He checked the papers on the tray table; there was no note there either. He went back downstairs into the kitchen, but other than a dirty coffee cup on the sideboard, nothing was amiss.

He left the apartment and went across to the one nextdoor and knocked. After a few moments, a tiny old lady came to the door, drying her hands on her apron.

"Oh, Steven," she smiled happily as she opened the door, "are you getting good use out of my bell?"

"Ah, yes, Mrs. Neidermaier, my partner's still using it. It's coming in very handy, thanks again."

"Oh, that's good."

"Um, actually, I was wondering if you could tell me, did you see my partner leave my apartment today?"

"Your partner?"

"Yes, Mike? Remember I told you he was injured in the line of duty a couple of weeks ago –?"

"Oh yes dear, I remember. He was very lucky, wasn't he?"

"Yes, ma'am. But, do you remember seeing him leave my place sometime this afternoon."

Mrs. Neidermaier seemed to think about it for a few seconds. "No, I'm afraid not, Steven, but you see, I was out a great deal today, doing some shopping."

Steve nodded. "That's okay, Mrs. -"

"But I did see that young man at your door this afternoon."

"Young man?"

"Oh, yes, he was pounding on your front door just before the taxi came to take me shopping. He was making such a racket. I actually came out here and asked him to stop."

"What did he look like?" Steve asked with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

"Oh, well, he was young like you are, Steven, and he dressed like you do too, with a nice jacket and tie. But he wasn't at all like you. He was very rude. He ignored me and just went right on pounding on your door. He was a very unpleasant young man."


	15. Chapter 15

**Thanks for all my readers and reviewers - your opinions matter! Sorry that this is a short one, but I didn't want anybody left hanging for too long!**

"Okay, so we have an APB out on Jack and his car but honestly, Steve, we can't be a hundred percent sure he has Mike, can we?" Rudy Olsen was sitting on the couch in Union Street apartment.

Steve was pacing back and forth across the living room floor, his hands atop his head. "Where the hell else would he be, Rudy? He knows he's not supposed to leave the house, the doctors told him."

Olsen and Norm Haseejian exchanged skeptical looks. "This is Mike we're talking about, right?" offered the Armenian detective with a trace of humour in his voice, which was not lost on the young inspector.

Steve glared at his colleague, then started to chuckle. "You're right, what am I saying?" He flopped down onto the armchair. "But I know he would have left a note; he knows I'm worried about him."

"Agreed," said Olsen as he stood and walked to the phone. He picked up the receiver and dialed.

Haseejian, sitting on the arm of the couch, leaned closer to Steve. "Can I get you another cup of coffee?" he asked quietly as Olsen asked for his call to be transferred to Homicide.

Steve shook his head. "No thanks, Norm."

"Dan? Yeah, Rudy. Listen, I know we have a priority on this Jack Elliott thing, but could you just make sure that nobody goes overboard on this, makes it bigger than it is at the moment. We just want to talk to the boy, alright, not drag him in in handcuffs, okay?" Olsen listened. "Perfect, that's great. Thanks, Dan… Yeah…. Yeah, we'll let you know if we hear anything from this end."

Olsen hung up the phone, turned to the others and shrugged. "Now we wait."

# # # # #

Steve was sitting in the armchair, sleeves rolled up and tieless, cradling a coffee cup in both hands as he leaned forward, elbows on knees. He'd been staring at the carpet for the last ten minutes.

Olsen and Haseejian were on either ends of the couch. Silence was the fourth presence in the room and had been for quite awhile.

Everyone jumped when the phone rang. Olsen, who was closer, grabbed the receiver. "Hello," he growled, then froze and listened with an intensity that instantly alerted the others. Steve got up and moved closer.

"Yes…yes…right, okay… that's great. Yes, we'll be right down." He hung up and turned to the others. "They got him. A patrol car just stopped him near the Presidio and they're bringing him in right now. And yes, he was alone in the car."

Steve heart leapt into his throat. "Shit," he muttered as he grabbed his car keys then started for the kitchen to turn off the coffee pot.

Haseejian had moved to the front window during Olsen's phone call and was staring out at the street. He was just about to turn away when he froze. "Steve," he called, "there's a taxi pulling up in front of your building."

Within seconds, both Steve and Olsen were at his side, looking through the picture window. The taxi was idling in front of the apartment, the passenger obviously paying the fare.

"Is that an Oakland cab?" Haseejian asked.

"Yeah," said Olsen slowly, sounding equally confused.

Finally the back door opened and, painfully slowly, the stiff figure of Mike Stone emerged and, turning carefully, slammed the car door. Steve was in motion for his own front door, throwing it open and stepping out onto the stoop with blinding speed.

Mike, looking down, holding a file in his left hand, his left arm held tightly against his side, arrived at the bottom of the stairs and put his foot on the first step, his right hand on the railing.

"Where the hell have you been?!"

Mike flinched and looked up quickly, almost losing his balance. His startled look immediately turned to guilt.

Still standing at the window, Olsen and Haseejian exchanged wide-eyed but relieved looks. Haseejian began to chuckle. "Oh oh, Mike's in shit," he whispered and Olsen laughed quietly.

Mike smiled sheepishly then continued to climb the stairs, trying to ignore his partner's angry glare. "I, ah, I took a little road trip." He grimaced, tucking his left arm tighter against his side. "I was gone a little longer than I figured."

Against his better judgment, Steve went down the stairs and took the file, and with a hand on Mike's right elbow, helped the older man the rest of the way up and into the apartment. As they crossed the threshold, Mike spotted his two colleagues.

"Hey, Norm, Rudy. What are you guys doing here?" he asked with a grin as he sat heavily on the couch and tried to suppress a pain-laden sigh.

Both men looked at Steve who, still scowling, had tossed the file onto the coffee table, removed Mike's fedora and was unzipping his jacket.

Olsen glanced at Haseejian then pointed at Steve. "Ah," he started slowly, "we're gonna let him tell you. We were just on our way out."

"Right," agreed Haseejian with a nod, as both men moved towards the door.

"Steve," Olsen said a little louder, trying to get the younger man's attention. When furious green eyes finally turned in his direction, both he and Haseejian cringed slightly. "I'll handle the, ah, the other matter," he jerked his thumb loosely over his shoulder, "and you just concentrate on what's going on here."

Haseejian was standing in the open doorway, trying somewhat unsuccessfully to suppress a laugh. Covering with a cough, and trying to avoid Steve's glare, he looked at Mike. "Great to see you again, boss," he grinned and turned away quickly.

"Yeah, great to see you, Mike. Wish I had the time to stay, but, well, there's a lot going on downtown…" Olsen's voice trailed off. "Steve, ah, I'll talk to you in the morning." And with that he beat a hasty retreat.

Still seething, Steve stood in front of his partner with his arms out, trying to get some control over his conflicting emotions before he could speak in a civilized manner. Mike, head lowered but looking at Steve through upraised eyes, waited, knowing that the younger man needed to get out his frustration first before he would listen to any explanation.

"What the hell were you thinking?" Steve finally asked.

"I honestly didn't think it was going to take that long. I had hoped to be home hours ago."

His racing heartbeat finally starting to slow down, Steve sat in the armchair and leaned forward, putting a hand on Mike's knee. He shook his head in relief. "I'm just glad you're okay," he said quietly.

Mike smiled warmly. "I am really sorry if I scared you. I had no intention of doing that. I actually thought I could do it fairly quickly." He shook his head ruefully. "I should have left a note, but I thought if I could get there and back before you got home, you might never find out… I'm sorry."

"So what exactly did you do?"

"I took a cab to Oakland."

"Oakland?"

"Yeah. I would have been back long ago, but there was a multi-car pile-up on the bridge and there was only one lane open."

"Why did you have to go to Oakland?" Steve asked quietly.

Mike smiled and leaned forward to pick up the file. "Steve, I really think I found something."


	16. Chapter 16

Mike eyes were alight with a passion Steve hadn't seen in awhile. He opened the file and handed it to his partner. "If you have some time, I'd like to go over it with you."

Steve's smirk with laced with affection. "If I have some time," he croaked sarcastically as Mike chuckled. "I tell you what," he began as he stood up, "you haven't eaten right?"

Mike shook his head.

"Why don't I put some soup on for us and brew a fresh pot of coffee – 'cause for some reason I think it's gonna be a long night – and then I'll let you take me through it."

Mike nodded with a smile. "Sounds good." He sat back with the file in his lap.

With a final grin, Steve retreated to the kitchen.

Twenty minutes later, with two bowls of soup on a serving tray, Steve returned to the living room. "Dinner's ready…" he began loudly, then let his voice trailed off when he saw his partner.

The file was still in his lap, but Mike's head had fallen back against the couch and his eyes were closed; he was sound asleep. Steve quietly put the tray on the coffee table then quickly mounted the stairs to the second floor, where he retrieved a blanket and two pillows.

Getting his groggy companion into a supine position on the couch wasn't a problem. Steve took Mike's bowl of soup back to the kitchen, poured himself a cup of coffee and returned to the living room. Taking turns sipping both his soup and his coffee, Steve spread the file out before him on the coffee table and set to work.

# # # # #

Mike floated up to consciousness slowly; his brain, trying to focus his thoughts, clashing with his body, that just wanted to remain dormant. When he finally got his eyes open, he realized he was still dressed and lying on the couch in Steve's living room.

It took several seconds for the memory of the previous day's activities to resurface. He squinted at a figure across the room then smiled when he recognized Steve poring over the file. The only light on the room seemed to be the lamp over Steve's shoulder; Mike had no idea what time it was but it was obviously after dark.

He began to sit up slowly when a sharp pain on the left side of his chest brought him up short. He gasped involuntarily. Steve's head came up quickly. Frowning, he asked, "Are you okay?"

Covering, Mike nodded and smiled. "Yeah, I just tried to get up too fast." Attempting to keep his discomfort from showing on his face, Mike smiled as he pushed himself to a sitting position. "What time is it?"

Steve glanced at his watch. "A little after four."

"You've been at that all night?" Mike had noticed the notepad that Steve had laid out in front of him, and the loose pieces of paper, with both of their handwriting, on the table and the floor.

"Yeah. Believe it or not, I can follow your notes." He looked at his partner with an impressed smile. "I really think you're onto something."

Mike's eyes lit up. "You think so? That's great."

"There's just a couple of things I need you to elaborate on, but I really think I know where you're going with this." Steve put the file down. "Look, you haven't eaten in quite awhile. Why don't I reheat that soup for you, and while you're eating I can ask you these questions I have written down?" he suggested, gesturing at the notepad on the table.

Mike nodded. "Sounds good to me."

"Great." Steve stood up and crossed to the kitchen.

As soon as Steve left the room, Mike's smile disappeared, replaced by a grimace as he wrapped his right arm across his chest and caught his breath. He started to cough, pain wracking his entire body. He tried not to cry out.

"Are you okay in there?" Steve called from the kitchen.

"Damn it," Mike muttered under his breath, trying to breathe in quiet gasps. "Yeah, I'm okay," he called back, surprising even himself in keeping the hurt out of his voice, "just the 'waking up coughs'." He even managed an audible chuckle.

He leaned his head back against the couch and willed himself to breathe normally, and slowly the pain in his chest subsided. By the time Steve returned with the reheated soup and a steaming cup of coffee, he seemed fine.

Steve put the tray on the table in front of Mike and retreated to the armchair. He picked up the file and his notebook. "Wow, I am really impressed," he said in all seriousness. "What made you go there?" he asked as he gestured at a page in the file.

Mike was sipping the soup slowly and cautiously, because it was hot but also because he didn't want to move quickly and give himself away. "Well, when I was going through the interviews, I realized that because there were so many people, there was a good chance that no-one's had the time yet to co-ordinate their stories, let alone corroborate them."

"Like I said, impressive." Steve moved to sit beside Mike on the couch.

"Okay, so, I see where you're going with this, but what about that?" He pointed to a notation that Mike had made in the margin of one of the reports.

And for the next hour, Mike led his partner along the path he had taken through the file to reach the conclusion he had come to, a direction that the investigation certainly need to go.

"Shit," said Steve when they had finished, "I think this is it." He sat in silence for several seconds, his partner watching him closely.

Suddenly Steve glanced at his watch, shut the file and stood up. He turned to Mike. "I'm gonna head into the office – I want to present this to the task force as soon as possible. You," he said quickly, pointing a finger, "are not coming with me. Don't even ask. You probably don't even remember, do you?"

Mike's petulant sneer turned to a look of confusion. "Remember what?"

Steve sighed smugly. "Thought so. You have an appointment with Dr. Peters this afternoon – a check-up. Remember?"

Mike sighed and rubbed his eyes. "Oh, shoot, yeah, I forgot."

Even though Peters was an Emergency Room doctor, he had asked to be the 'consulting physician' for Mike. The carnage of the Bryant Street shooting had rattled a lot of people in The City, and Peters wanted to do whatever he could to remain supportive to a police department that was still reeling from the shock. And as he was aware of the extent of Mike's injuries, he'd requested that the lieutenant come back to the Emergency Room at Franklin for his follow-up.

"It's at two o'clock. I'll get back here around 1:30 to pick you up."

"You don't have to; I can take a cab."

"You're not –"

"Look, I took a cab all the way to Oakland and back yesterday. I can take a cab to Franklin," Mike insisted.

Steve thought for a second. It would be good if he didn't have to leave the office after presenting these findings. "All right, but I want you to get upstairs and into bed. I'll call you at 1 so you can get yourself ready, and I'll make sure the cab is here by 1:30. Does that work for you?"

Mike smiled and nodded. "That works for me."

# # # # #

Steve was standing at the far side of the table; members of the task force were spread around the room, everyone silent and attentive. Behind him, taped to the wall, were enlargements of various photos and notes, some highlighted, others circled.

"So, to condense all this down, and I'll go into more detail later, one of the old - sorry, pardon me - elderly ladies mentioned that she'd seen three teen-age boys near the corner of Bryant and 6th, just after the shooting. One of them was carrying a basketball.

"No one else mentioned these boys, and they weren't interviewed." Steve picked up a piece of paper. "There were two…elderly…" he smiled, "sorry, if I call them old, Mike'll skin me alive, ladies but only one claimed to have seen them. Mike tracked her down; shes in Highland Hospital in Oakland. She'd taken a fall visiting her daughter a few days ago and broken her hip.

"So, yesterday, Mike went on a 'field trip' and visited her. She remembered the three boys and insisted that they were there, that she hadn't imagined them or seen them somewhere else and thought she saw them at Bryant."

With a small affectionate smile that only those closest to him could see, Steve went on. "Mike not only got her to remember the three boys, two black, one white, but also what they were wearing. One of them had on what seemed to be a school t-shirt; and she remembered the colours – blue and white. And they not only were carrying a basketball, but all three were wearing backpacks, that, to this lady at least, seemed to be very full."

Steve looked around the room. "Any questions so far?"

No questions, but a lot of impressed smiles and nods.

"So," he continued, "the ball in now in our court. Mike has laid out a path for us to follow, if we care to – he wanted to do it, of course, but I forbade it." There were chuckles throughout the room.

"I know it's summer, and the schools are empty, but we need to find out which high schools in the area, primarily here and Oakland for starters, use blue and white as their school colours. We'll spread further afield if necessary.

"Then we need to get our hands on yearbooks, so we can take them to, ah, Mrs. Vandonigan – that's the lady in the hospital – and see if she recognizes anyone. Talk to teachers and principals and see if they know of any threesomes – two black, one white – who hang around together and shoot hoops. You guys know the routine… I have lots more details we need to go over, but that's the gist of it, so, let's get to work," Steve finished with a shrug.

Olsen crossed to the table as the task force members rose and mingled and the volume in the room increased. "Wow," Olsen said, sounding genuinely impressed, "Mike did all that yesterday?"

With raised eyebrows, Steve nodded.

Olsen chuckled. "How's he doing today?"

"Well, he fell asleep about ten minutes after you and Norm left. Woke up about four this morning, still on my couch. He's okay." Steve glanced at his watch. "He's got a follow-up appointment at Franklin this afternoon and I am going to make sure he gets there." He started collecting the papers on the table. "I'll move into his office with all this, is that okay?"

"Sure, sure," Olsen nodded. "Say, why don't you head up this part of the investigation – I'll talk to Marutti – and you keep Mike in the loop, make him feel like he's still a part of this, okay?"

"Sounds good to me. I hated taking this away from him this morning, but he's just not up to being a real part of this yet."

# # # # #

Steve dialed the phone on Mike's desk, then sat back and waited for the call to connect. "Yes, hello, this is Inspector Keller with the San Francisco Police Department. Is there someone in your office who can help me with a little research?... Thank you, yes, I'll hold…" He glanced out into the bullpen; everyone else seemed to be on phones as well.

"Ah, yes, thank you. What I'm looking for is a list of high school colours from schools in San Francisco and Oakland counties. Yes, I know the schools are on summer holidays right now," he said civilly, trying to keep the sarcasm out of his voice, "that's why I am calling the school board instead of the schools themselves…. Yes… Yes…. By tomorrow? Yes, that would be fine. Yes. Could I have your name please? Mrs. Becker. Thank you, Mrs. Becker, I will call you back tomorrow morning if that's convenient?... No, ma'am, I would prefer to call you at, let's say, 10 am?... Yes, thank you very much." He hung up and sighed loudly. "Bureaucracy…" he muttered to himself.

He glanced at his watch; 3:10. Mike should be on his way home by now. He twisted his neck to relieve the stiffness. He'd been at work since 5 am, getting things ready for the presentation, and he was starting to lose steam.

He reached for the phone to make another call when Taylor stuck his head through the doorway. "Steve, call for you on line three."

"Thanks." Steve picked up the receiver and punched the button for the third line. "Inspector Keller, Homicide. How can I help you?"

"Steve, hi, this is Doctor Peters. From Franklin?"

There was moment of startled silence. "Ah, yes, Dr. Peters, hi."

"Ah, Steve, I just wanted to let you know, we have Mike in here for a check-up and, ah, well, I just want you to know that we're going to admit him."

Steve froze; his field of vision narrowed and his heart began to pound. He tried to keep the fear out of his voice. "Um, admitted? Why?"

"Well, he has some fluid in his left lung that's got me a little worried. We're running some tests on him, but I'd feel a lot safer if we admitted him for a couple of days. There's a very good chance he has pneumonia, and with the injury to his lung, it could get very bad very fast if we don't get a handle on it."

"Yeah, I see, ah, that sounds, ah, that sounds like a good idea…"

"Listen, Steve, he's okay." Peters voice was steady and calming. "We're going to get him into a room and get him on some medication and oxygen. He's feeling pretty good right now, and we're going to try to keep it that way. He's in good hands and you know it, right?"

"Right."

"So why don't you put a bag together for him with pajamas and toiletries and get over here and see him when you can, okay? And don't worry, he's gonna be fine; we're just being cautious."

"Right, yeah. Um, I'll be there as soon as I can."

"I'll tell him. See you soon."

Still holding the phone in his hand, Steve heard the line disconnect. Then suddenly he slammed the receiver down and snagged his jacket from the back of the chair, shrugging it on as he strode quickly through the bullpen and out the door.

"Steve! Is everything alright?" Healey called to his retreating back, but there was no response.


	17. Chapter 17

Steve Keller jogged through the sliding doors of the Emergency entrance of Franklin Hospital, an overnight bag in hand, and up the counter. "Hi," he said in a rush, "could you tell me what room Lieutenant Michael Stone is in, please?"

"Oh, Lieutenant Stone," the middle-aged nurse smiled at him. "Dr. Peters told me you'd be coming…Inspector Keller?" Steve nodded quickly. "Yes, the Lieutenant is upstairs, Room 515. I'll have Dr. Peters meet you there." She reached for the phone on the counter.

"Thanks." Steve headed for the elevators. As he started down the hall on the fifth floor, he could see Peters waiting for him near an open door. The doctor held out his hand as Steve approached.

"Steve, good to see you, but I wish it was under better circumstances," he said quietly as they shook hands. "We've got him on oxygen, fluids and some pretty powerful antibiotics, so now it's just wait and see. He's feeling pretty good right now, but I have a feeling he's going to get worse before he gets better, so be prepared for that, okay? I told him you were coming." He took a step back so Steve could enter the room. "He's pretty tired of seeing me, so I'll leave you two alone," he chuckled then moved off down the corridor.

Steve stepped into the room and stopped. With the bed slightly raised, Mike was lying back against several pillows, eyes closed. An oxygen mask covered the lower half of his face, and an IV line was taped to his right forearm. As Steve slowly approached the bed, Mike's eyes fluttered open and he smiled.

"See, I told you I didn't want to come here – every time I do they make me stay," he chuckled, his voice muffled but audible under the mask.

Steve smiled back, shaking his head, not quite successful in keeping the worry from his eyes. He held up the overnight bag. "I brought your pajamas and some other stuff."

"Thanks. I hope I'm not here _that_ long," Mike said with smile but Steve could tell he was worried as well.

Steve dropped the bag on the floor and pulled a chair closer to the bed. "How are you feeling?"

Looking away and closing his eyes momentarily, Mike took a tentative deep breath. "Not so good," he said reluctantly, "it really hurts to breathe."

"I bet it does," Steve said sympathetically, putting a hand on Mike's arm and squeezing. They stared at each other in silence for a few seconds. "At least you're here, where they can help you. Peters won't be happy until he sees you walk out of here, I can tell you that."

"He's been great," Mike agreed. "Oh, ah, what happened at the office? Did you make your little presentation?" he asked, trying to change the subject.

"Yeah, it went very well. Everyone thinks you're really on to something – I have guys out right now trying to track down yearbooks, teachers, you know – all the stuff you wanted. There's a lot of work to do but we'll get it done."

Mike nodded, smiling. "It might turn out to be a red herring, but you never know, right?" He frowned as he stared closer at his young partner. "You haven't slept, have you?"

With a self-conscious smile, Steve shook his head.

"You know what's the best thing you could do for me right now? Go home, get some sleep, and then go into the office tomorrow morning and get back to work." When Steve opened his mouth to protest, Mike cut him off. "Steve, I don't want you sitting here for the next couple of days watching me sleep. It won't do either of us any good." Mike paused, closing his eyes as he attempted to control the discomfort in his chest.

Steve waited, concern furrowing his brow. Mike eventually opened his eyes and looked at him again. "Please. The best thing you can do for me is catch those guys."

Steve thought it over for a long beat then nodded. "Alright, but I'm gonna stay for awhile now. Maybe we can have something to eat together, is that okay?"

"Hospital food?" Mike asked in dismay. "Are you serious?"

Steve chuckled. "I think Peters'll allow me to bring something in for you; he's pretty good about that kind of stuff. Want me to ask him?"

"Yeah, I'd like that," Mike said quietly, his voice laced with affection.

Patting Mike's arm comfortingly, Steve got up and headed back out into the corridor. Mike put his head back on the pillows and closed his eyes, smiling fondly.

# # # # #

A slightly more rested Steve Keller was taking the elevator up from the parking garage in the Bryant Street building. He'd gotten home from the hospital the previous evening at a decent hour, and crashed almost immediately. He had thought of sleeping in his own bed, but changed his mind – until Mike was healthy and back in his own home, that bed was his, so Steve hunkered down on his couch instead.

He had decided that the only person he was going to tell about Mike being re-admitted to Franklin was Olsen; everyone else needed to concentrate on the investigation without this worrisome distraction.

He turned the corner into the corridor for Olsen's office. Up ahead, he saw a door open, and Olsen and Elliott stepped into the hallway and headed away from him. Suddenly unable to control his pent-up emotions, Steve sprinted down the corridor to behind Elliott, spun him around by the shoulder, grabbed his jacket lapels and slammed him against the wall.

"Was that you knocking on my door looking for Mike?!" he hissed into Elliott's face before Olsen could even get a restraining hand on him.

Elliott shook his head furiously. "No, no, I wasn't … it's not what you think," he got out quickly, as Olsen grabbed Steve's arm to pull him away.

"Steve!" the captain growled loudly into his ear. "Let go of him. Now!"

Without taking his unblinking stare from Elliott, Steve slowly opened his fists and released Elliot's jacket. Olsen took Steve's by the elbow. "Both of you, in my office, move!" he ordered.

In tense silence, the three men covered the short distance back to Olsen's office and went in, Olsen at the rear, allowing the two inspectors to cross to the chairs and sit. With deliberate formality, Olsen closed the door then rounded his desk to sit heavily and face his young officers.

He pointed at Steve. "You, keep quiet." His finger went towards Elliott. "You, explain to him what you just told me."

Elliott, who had been staring at the floor, cleared his throat and looked up at Steve. "Yes, that was me at your place, but I wasn't there to do … God, I'm not really sure what you thought I was going to do. Look, the other day, when we were here, and you tore strips off me because I blamed Mike for Charlie…" Elliott paused and took a deep breath.

"What you said, well, I really heard what you were saying for the first time. I left here and sat in my car for over an hour, thinking about what you said." He looked down and smiled slightly, shaking his head. "I like Mike. I've always liked him. He's been more than fair with me over the years and I know how close he and Charlie were. And I realized I was being unfair to him. What he did didn't kill Charlie…"

Elliott looked back up at Steve, whose uncompromising stare was beginning to soften. "I knew Mike was staying at your place. I didn't know if you'd told him how I felt, but all I knew was that I had to talk to him, to apologize, to let him know I was glad he was going to be okay."

"Then how come my neighbour said you were so rude to her? It sounded like you were very angry."

Elliott snorted with a small laugh. "_I_ was rude to _her_? I was pounding on the door because I had used your bell and knocked but no one was answering. I knew Mike was there and I thought maybe something had happened to him."

Steve and Olsen exchanged slight smiles. "Ah, Mike was in Oakland."

"Oakland? What the hell was he doing there?"

Steve shrugged. "Long story."

After a slight pause, Elliott continued. "Well, when I started to pound on your door, all of a sudden this old lady opens her door and starts yelling at me – in language that would make a sailor blush."

Olsen wide-eyed stare travelled from Elliott to Steve, who dropped his head into a hand and tried to stifle a laugh. "I'd forgotten about that," he said almost to himself, then looked up at Olsen. "When I first moved in, good old Mrs. Neidermaier really didn't take to me. She made a point of letting me know when I was leaving too early in the morning or coming home too late at night, and in fairly colourful language. She finally got used to me – and I her – and now we get along great, but in the beginning…" He shook his head and chuckled.

Elliott smiled. "Anyway, she was such a pain that I finally just left." He stared at Steve evenly. "Look, Steve, I'm sorry if I upset you. I was mad and I wanted to blame someone for what happened to Charlie, and Mike was just an easy target because he wasn't around to defend himself. I was wrong, and I hope you'll accept my apology."

Steve at him blankly for several long seconds, trying to weigh Elliott's words, his sincerity. He glanced briefly at Olsen before leaning toward Elliott slightly. "Mike came up with a pretty intriguing lead for us and I'm taking point on it. We could use your help."

It took Elliott several seconds to realize his apology had been accepted. He smiled broadly and nodded. "I would love that," he said almost breathlessly, glancing happily at Olsen, who smiled back.

Steve nodded kindly. "Why don't you head over to the task force office? I'll be there shortly and I'll fill you in. I just need to talk to Rudy for a couple of minutes, okay?"

"Sure, sure." Elliott got to his feet and, looking happier than he had in days, and with a grateful nod to Olsen, left the room.

Olsen sank back in his office chair and smiled at the young homicide inspector. "Well, that went better than I thought," he chuckled.

"Yeah, well, 'there but for the grace', right?" Steve shrugged. "Ah, Rudy, I just wanted to let you know, Mike's back in the hospital."

"What?" Olsen leaned forward, brow furrowed in alarm. "What happened?"

"He has pneumonia. They caught it when he went in for that check-up yesterday. They admitted him. I saw him last night; he's tired and in pain but he's in the best place he could be right now. And he made me promise I would continue with the task force, so, let's keep this to ourselves for now, okay? He doesn't want anybody to fuss, you know him."

Olsen nodded in agreement. "Well, okay, but you'll keep me up to date if there are any changes."

"Of course, of course." Steve got up. "Look, I've got to get to work. Mike's orders," he chuckled. He gestured vaguely towards the other chair. "Thanks for, ah, this… It's nice to have the air cleared."

Olsen nodded again. "That's what I'm here for," he chuckled.

# # # # #

The task force office was bustling and loud, so Steve decided to retreat to Mike's office to make some phone calls. He had just sat down at the desk and opened his notebook when Inspector Simon Panetta, John Burkhardt's partner in Missing Persons and task force member, strode quickly to the office door and leaned in.

"Steve, thought you'd like to know – we just fielded a call from an Oakland detective. Seems they've got a CI over there who came in this morning with a story about some kids gunning down some cops to get into a gang."


	18. Chapter 18

Doctor Peters stood in the doorway, listening to his patient struggle to breathe. Closing his eyes in despair, he mentally shook himself and tried to put on a more positive face, moving closer to the bed. "Hey, Mike, how are you doing?" He knew it had been a long, difficult night for the injured detective.

Mike eyes shifted to meet the doctor's. He coughed carefully, wincing and catching his breath. "Not so good," he said quietly, pain registering on his face.

"We're going to increase your pain meds, see if it'll help. It'll probably put you to sleep, but that might be a good thing." He smiled encouragingly.

Mike nodded. "Listen, doc, I need you to do me a favour. I'm not going to ask this lightly."

"All right," Peters said warily.

"It's really important right now that Steve concentrates on what he's doing … the investigation. He doesn't need to be distracted, by anything.

Including me."

Peters shifted uncomfortably, realizing where the conversation was going.

"I want you to promise me," Mike continued slowly and carefully, fighting the pain in his chest, "that no matter how bad I get, you won't tell him. At least not until his job is done." Mike stared into Peters eyes.

"I need you to promise me, please."

The doctor looked away, took a deep breath, and then looked back, meeting Mike's eyes evenly. "It's against my better judgment, but… I will respect your wishes, Mike, as much as I disagree with them." As Mike continued to stare, Peters sighed again and raised his right hand. "I promise."

Mike smiled, and visible relaxed. "Thank you. That means more than you can know."

# # # # #

"Captain Stewart, this is Inspector Keller, SFPD. I hear you have someone over there we should listen to." Steve was on the phone in Mike's office.

"Good to talk to you, Inspector. Well, we think we might have something here for you. One of our guys has a CI, someone he trusts completely, who got in touch with him this morning, told him about this vibe on the street about some kids who claim they off'ed some cops as some sort of gang initiation.

"Now, everybody knows about what's going on over there; hell, the whole world knows and we've been giving your boys assistance with the investigation. But this kinda came out of the blue. The CI thought at first it was just braggadocio; you know, some kids staking a claim when no one else has, but then we heard it from another source and we began to give it some credence."

"Does he know who these kids supposedly are?" Steve asked, furiously making notes.

"No, not at all, but he does know they're local."

"Local? You mean, Oakland local?"

"Yeah. Does that change things for you?"

"Sure does. Listen, off the top of your head, do you know any Oakland high schools that use blue and white as their colours?"

"Hmm," Stewart thought audibly, "the only one I can think of right now is Oakland High."

"Oakland High," Steve muttered, writing it down. "Listen, Captain, we have some theories we would like to share with your guys. I'd like to go over there with some members of our task force and talk to your guys one-on-one. Is that okay with you?"

"By all means."

"Great. We'll be there as soon as we can."

# # # # #

"Okay, so remember, guys, we're gonna be on their turf, so they have the lead on this. Even though the crime occurred in our town, if it turns out the shooters are from over here, different county, different jurisdiction."

The three other men in the car nodded. Steve looked across the front seat at Inspector Taylor, who was driving, then glanced at his watch again. The movement wasn't lost on Jack Elliott, who was in the back seat alongside Simon Panetta.

Elliott leaned forward slightly. "Anything wrong? You seem to be checking your watch a lot."

Steve started slightly, embarrassed at being caught out. He hadn't had time to call the hospital that morning and, though he hadn't heard from Peters, he couldn't shake the feeling that all was not right. He cleared his throat. "No, I'm, ah, just anxious to get there and see if this CI's story holds water. It could just be the break we need."

Unconvinced, but nodding understandingly, Elliott sat back. "Here's hoping."

# # # # #

Eight San Francisco police officers entered the Homicide bullpen of the Oakland Police Department. A grey-haired veteran plainsclothesman detached himself from a group of detectives and approached the newcomers. "I'm Captain Stewart. Which one of you guys is Keller?"

Steve stepped forward, holding out his hand. "That would be me. Captain." They shook hands then Steve gestured behind himself at the others. "Lieutenant John Yu, Sergeants Norm Haseejian and Dan Healey, Inspectors Jack Elliott, Simon Panetta, Bill Tanner and Ryan Taylor." As Steve introduced each one, they acknowledged their presence.

"Welcome, guys," said Stewart earnestly. With a chuckle, he added, "My guys'll introduce themselves as necessary. Too many new names to process."

"Fair enough."

"Listen, guys," Stewart said gently, "before we get started here, we just want to let you know how devastated we all were by what you guys went through… and are still going through, no doubt. And we're assuming all of you were impacted in some way by what happened."

"Some of us more then others," Haseejian said with a nod towards Yu.

As Stewart and the other Oakland cops looked in his direction, Yu shrugged. "I got hit," he said simply, trying to downplay it.

"Shit, seriously?" said Stewart with awe in his voice.

Yu shrugged modestly. "I was at the back of the group. I got hit in the left arm. I was released the same day… I was the luckiest one," he finished quietly.

Stewart nodded sympathetically, then turned to the others. When no-one said anything immediately, Steve jumped in. "Simon's partner was hit in the right shoulder; he's recovering at home right now. My partner was hit in the chest. Jack's partner Charlie, he didn't make it."

Stewart took at step towards Jack and held out his hand. "I'm really sorry, Jack. I can't imagine what you're going through."

Elliott shook the captain's hand warmly, appreciating the empathy. "Thanks. Charlie was an amazing partner, and friend."

Stewart nodded encouragingly, then turned to Steve. "Your partner's Mike Stone, right?" At Steve's nod, he continued. "I've met him a couple of times over the years. He's a great guy. How's he doing?"

Steve smiled. "He's doing, ah, he's doing great," he said, his smile briefly disappearing.

Haseejian, standing slightly behind his colleague, turned sharply in his direction, concern furrowing his brow. Elliott, who also noticed Steve's hesitation, thought nothing of it until he noticed Haseejian's reaction.

"Listen," Steve continued, "we'd really like to get going on this…"

"Sure, sure," said Stewart quickly, and began to usher the visiting detectives toward another room.

Elliott held back, putting a hand on Haseejian's forearm to get his attention. When the Armenian detective looked him, Elliott nodded over his shoulder and the two detached themselves from the group.

"Is everything okay with Mike?" Elliott asked.

"What do you mean?" Haseejian whispered.

"Well, I saw you react when Steve hesitated about how Mike was doing. He's never done that before. And on the way over here in the car, he seemed preoccupied and he kept looking at his watch. Is there something going on that we don't know about?"

Haseejian looked at him closely. "I have no idea."

"Well, you're closer to him than anyone else I know other than Mike. Why don't you ask him straight out?"

Haseejian nodded thoughtfully. "Yeah, maybe I will. Thanks for the heads-up, kid."

The two detectives caught up with the others.

# # # # #

Captain Stewart was standing at the far end of a large office, addressing both his own detectives and the SFPD invitees. "Speed is of the essence right now, guys – the sooner we can put names to faces, the less chance we have of someone getting word of this and we lose our edge." He nodded towards the guests. "I'm gonna pair each one of you up with one of our 'Frisco friends," he grinned, as his own team chuckled and the San Francisco detectives smiled sardonically, "and then we'll get to work."

When he had finished the briefing, he turned to Steve and shrugged. "Sorry, I just couldn't resist," he said with a chuckle.

"It's a good thing Mike isn't here," Steve returned with a smile, "or he'd have your head on a platter. I've seen him demote people for less."

Stewart laughed. "Come on, I've got a detective for you to meet." He led Steve down a corridor and into another office where a middle-aged blond body builder was sitting at a table, a stack of files in front of him.

The blond stood as Steve and Stewart entered the room, extending a hand. "Inspector Keller, I'm Sergeant Petrovich. I think I might have something very interesting for you."

Steve shook his hand, warming up instantly to the slightly older man. "Petrovich. Serbian?" Steve asked tentatively.

The Oakland detective's eyes lit up. "Yeah! How did you know that?"

Steve chuckled. "My partner's Serbian. He's very proud of his heritage – and I've heard all about it over the years."

"Yeah? What's his name?"

"Well, it's Stone now, but I think, when his dad emigrated years ago, the family name was Stonzic. It was anglicized at Ellis Island, if I remember correctly."

Petrovich's smile turned serious. "Your partner was shot in that ambush a couple of weeks ago, right?"

Steve nodded.

"How's he doing?"

Steve hesitated, not wanting to lie but not willing to tell the truth. "He's, ah, he's still got some issues, but he's doing okay. We're hoping to get him back to work soon."

"That's great," said Petrovich with touching sincerity. "Anyway," he continued, changing the subject, "you're here to talk about my CI, right?"

Steve nodded, taking a seat at the table. "We've had nothing to work on, no leads, no physical evidence, nothing. It's been incredibly frustrating."

"I bet. Well, to be perfectly honest, when, ah, let's call him John, got ahold of me this morning, I didn't believe him. It just seemed too far-fetched. But it sounded intriguing enough to pursue it even to an illogical conclusion." He took a deep breath. "But, unfortunately, one of my colleagues came to me with a similar story, from one of his CI's. From one guy, maybe you ignore it; from two, you gotta look into it."

Steve put the file he had been holding on the table between them.

"This is what we have right now. It's just a theory at the moment, but I think it's one we need to pursue, and from what you've just told me, I really think it's the only way we should go until we hit a dead end."

For the next hour, Steve and Petrovich went over everything in the file, everything that Mike had alerted them to, everything that both the San Francisco and Oakland detectives had managed to compile in the few short hours since the investigation had turned in this direction.

Petrovich sat back in his chair, an appreciative smile on his face. "And you said your partner figured this out? The partner that was shot in the chest?"

Steve nodded with a smile and raised eyebrows. "Did I mention his nickname is Iron Mike?"

"Well earned, from the looks of it."

"Yeah, well, he hates it," Steve smiled affectionately, then sobered slightly remembering the struggle his partner was still enduring.

There was a knock on the door and Stewart entered. "Just to get you two up to date, we've gotten in touch with the principal of Oakland High, and he's on his way into the school, along with the vice principal and the office secretary. We figured if anyone there knows what's going on with the kids, those three will be the ones to know. We've already gotten our hands on the last three Oakland High yearbooks and Baker and, ah, Hah-see-gian," he said carefully, sounding it out, "are going over to see that old lady," Steve winced, "and see if she recognizes anyone." Stewart grinned. "So, good start?"

Steve smiled appreciatively. After two disappointing weeks, it was satisfying to see something starting to happen. He glanced at his watch. It wasn't even noon and already they had covered more ground than he could have imagined.

# # # # #

Doctor Peters stood quietly over his patient, frustration and despair warring for his full attention. Sadly, he took a deep breath, and turned to leave the room. With a heavy step, he approached the nurse's station.

"Karen, please call down to ICU. Tell them I need to move a patient down there stat." He looked down at the phone then back at the room he had just left. "Damn it," he swore under his breath.


	19. Chapter 19

Things really started to move fast as the afternoon began. Baker and Haseejian called in from Mrs. Vandonigan's to report that she had 'sort of' recognized one of the black teenagers from an Oakland High yearbook photo, one Jermaine Johnson, known as "J-Boy". Healey and Trafford, in the Oakland High office with the principal and his staff, then reported back that the vice principal had identified a second black youth that "J-Boy" palled around with: Robert Sampson, or "B-Bob".

Within a half hour, a patrol unit brought "B-Bob" in, and Steve was on his way with Stewart to the viewing area outside an OPD interrogation room. Oakland homicide sergeants Dan Romero and Gil Rountree were sitting on one side of a steel grey metal table; a skinny, Afro-haired, terrified "B-Bob" on the other.

While the Oakland detectives began their interrogation, Stewart introduced Steve to OPD gang expert Sergeant Jerry Coleman. Coleman explained that though there was no one big gang in Oakland after the demise of the notorious Ward Brothers, a lot of smaller factions had been warring over the prostitution and ever-increasingly profitable drug trades.

"We do have a couple of gangs that are more violent that we'd like, into turf wars and that kinda thing, but no one's heard of any group that would go so far as to use cop-killing as an initiation. That's is, we're hoping so.

"Look," he continued, looking to Stewart, "Alex and I are meeting up with one of our gang CI's in about half an hour, ask him what's the word on the street. This guy is pretty far in with one of the more violent gangs, so if there's word out there, he'll know about it. If we get anything from him, we should have it in about an hour and we can run with that and anything we get from this little shit." He crooked a thumb towards the two-way mirror.

Stewart turned to Steve. "You wanna stay here or you wanna go with Jerry? Your choice."

Steve glanced through the two-way, then back at Stewart. "I'll get Jack in here to watch the interrogation and I'll go with you and your partner, Sergeant, if that's okay?"

"Of course. Let's go."

# # # # #

The four men were crowded around a small table in the back of a dark, airless, smoke-filled bar, the three cops drinking bad coffee, the other man a Budweiser. Hasty introductions had been made and they had gotten right down to business.

"Hey, man," said Drew "Beenie" Benedict, "that was rough what went on over there in 'Frisco. Even our bad selves thought that was way over the top." He looked at Steve. "You, like, close to those guys that got popped?"

Steve nodded. "I knew all three that died, and my partner was shot."

"Wow, sorry man. Really."

"So, Beenie," Coleman interjected, hoping to move this along, "what's the word, man?"

"Okay, I'll tell you what I know. It ain't much, but it might help. An' right off, I'm telling ya, I don' know no names or nothin' like that, but I have some information might help with one of your 'in-ter-ro-gations'," he said with deliberate sarcasm.

"Yeah, what's that?" asked Sergeant Alex Cawthorne.

"You guys know 'Papa' Jones?"

Both Coleman and Cawthorne nodded, Coleman cutting a quick glance to Steve that told the San Francisco cop that he would be filled in on the details later.

"The day after all that shit went down in 'Frisco, I was having a beer and a lid with ol' Papa and he said he thought he might know who did it, but he wasn't gonna do nothin' about it. 'Let them cops figure it out themselves if they're so smart,' he says to me. Which is one a the reasons I didn't come to you with this earlier," Beenie added quickly, noting the angry glare in the eyes of the three cops opposite him.

"What, you don' remember?" he asked accusingly. "I tol' the 'po-leece' about that jerk-off that beat an' raped that ol' woman, and 'somehow' someone found out about it and I got the shit beat outa me? Remember?"

Cawthorne nodded almost sheepishly and Coleman just grunted.

"But he told you, right? Papa told you?" Coleman prompted.

Beenie sat back, grinning. "Sure he tol' me," he said slowly, enjoying the power, however fleeting it would be. Then he laughed and leaned over the table again, conspiratorially.

"It turns out a couple a weeks back, about, oh, eight, ten days before the 'Frisco shootin', these three punks come walkin' into J.C.'s place and walk right up to him at that back-room table he has – you know the one?" There were more nods. "And these little jack-shits have the cajones to demand he let 'em 'join his gang', as they put it. J.C. don't have time for no wet-behind-the-ears babies, so he decided to have some fun with 'em.

"He gets all serious and all that, and in front of some of his lieutenants, who're trying so hard not to laugh they're peeing their pants, he says to 'em, 'Well now, the only way you can get into my gang is, you gotta shoot yourself a cop.'"

All three detectives started slightly, shifting uneasily in their seats. Beenie's grin wavered. "He was joking, man, he weren't serious. He thought if he said that, those pussies would get out of there and leave him alone… But, an' J.C. tol' Papa that this is what really scared him, two of the punks actually looked sick and backed off, but the first one, the one that did all the talkin', he just got this look in his eye, like he liked the sound of that. J.C. said he got all quiet like, and smiled and nodded, and then he just walked away and didn't say another word."

Beenie took a second for his words to sink in. "Papa told me that the day after the shootin', J.C. comes to him all scared like, saying he thought he knew who did it and why and it wasn't his fault, he was jokin', that punk wasn't supposed to take him serious. J.C. knew he could be charged with conspiracy 'cause it was cops that was killed. He was scared."

Coleman and Cawthorne exchanged a look then Cawthorne turned his attention back to Beenie. "If it is these kids that did it, did they ever come back to J.C., demanding to be allowed into the gang because they did what he told them to?"

Beenie shook his head, laughing slightly. "No, sir, J.C.'s been in hiding since he talked to Papa. No one knows where he is. Some people think he's left town. He don' wanna run into that psycho, an' go to prison as a cop killer. He figures he wouldn't even make it to trial, and he's probably right."

Coleman took a deep breath. "Well, this is all very interesting, Beenie, but, did J.C. or Papa happen to tell you, or anybody, what these kids names are or what they looked like?"

Beenie looked around the room then leaned even further across the table. "Ain' got no names like I said before, but I can tell you this – two of 'em they go to Oakland High, and that first one, that psycho – he's a rich white boy."

Beenie leaned back with a wide satisfied smile and sipped his beer.

# # # # #

Steve and Cawthorne sat in the car, waiting for Coleman, who was on a payphone relaying all this new information into Stewart. Cawthorne had been bringing the inspector up to speed on the Oakland gang hierarchy.

Steve found himself glancing from his watch to an empty payphone next to the one Coleman was using. Interrupting Cawthorne and excusing himself, he got out of the car and approached the phone, fishing a piece of paper out of his jacket pocket.

Cawthorne watched as Steve fed in some coins, dialed a number and waited for the call to connect. Less then two minutes later, the San Francisco cop slammed the receiver down angrily and stood there for several seconds, as if trying to get himself under control.

While Coleman continued to report, Steve returned to the unmarked sedan and into the back seat, closing the door a lot harder than was necessary. Cawthorne gave him a couple of seconds, looking at him in the rearview mirror, then asked cautiously, "Everything okay?"

Steve almost seemed startled that there was someone else in the car.

"Ah, yeah, ah, sorry, personal matter." He cleared his throat.

Cawthorne nodded, letting the subject drop.

# # # # #

When the trio walked into the Oakland homicide office, things were already well in hand. Captain Stewart brought them up to speed. "B-Bob" Sampson had collapsed like a house of cards when Rountree and Romero had told that they "knew" about he and J-Boy being involved in the cop killing in San Francisco. Even though he was 17, he turned out to be a scared little kid in way over his head.

He had 'confessed' to being with J-Boy when the shooting went down, and at first said it was just the two of them, and that J-Boy was the only one that fired the shots. But when confronted with the ballistics reports that four guns had been used, and therefore two shooters, he quickly back-pedaled and confirmed that there was another member of their little gang, although he refused to reveal a name.

While the grilling of Sampson continued, "J-Boy" Johnson had been apprehended and dragged in, and was now in another interrogation room facing the wrath of two more Oakland detectives and SFPD's Lieutenant Yu. While Johnson studied them with a smug, menacing silence, the detectives laid out the information they had gleaned so far, most of it from Sampson; when the possibility of the death penalty, for cop killing, came up, Johnson's demeanour began to shift, and they pounced on the crack in the teenager's contemptuous veneer.

Suddenly the information began to come fast and furious. Sampson told Rountree and Romero that J-Boy had been one of the shooters and that he himself had been the lookout and held the stairwell door open so they could make a fast exit after it was over. As a trio, playing around with a basketball, they had walked down the street as casually as they could muster, then had split up when they got several streets away.

Sampson and Johnson had stayed together, made their way down to the Embarcadero near Coit Tower and, when no one was looking, tossed both guns that Johnson had used into the Bay. Almost before the words were out of his mouth, Healey was on the phone to SFPD HQ, and divers were being alerted to start the search.

During all this activity, and remembering his quick exchange with Elliott, Haseejian, who was back in the office, had kept a close eye on his Homicide colleague. Steve was at the centre of the fray, working closely with Stewart in coordinating the OPD's and SFPD's efforts in keeping track of and following up on all the rapidly incoming information.

Though sharp and on-the-ball, Steve still seemed, to the Armenian detective who knew him so well, slightly preoccupied. Haseejian was pretty sure he knew why, and when he noticed a slight lull in the intensity in the room, he sidled up to his confederate, who was bent over a table reading a report, and asked quietly, "Hey, kiddo, is everything okay?"

Startled, Steve looked up. "What? What do you mean?"

"Well, you just look, I don't know, a little distracted. Look," he continued quickly, holding up his hands, "I don't want to pry, but if you need to talk to someone… Is it Mike?" he asked quietly.

Steve straightened up quickly, almost angrily. But looking deeply into his friend's sympathetic eyes, he deflated. "Norm, you can't say anything to anybody, okay?" he said sotto voce. Haseejian nodded. Steve glanced quickly around the room to make sure they weren't being overheard. "Mike's back in the hospital."

"Why? What happened?"

"He's got pneumonia. They put him in as a precaution."

"A precaution? Okay, that makes sense," Haseejian mulled this over. "Do you think it's because of…?"

"The other day? Coming over here? Yeah, I'm pretty sure of that."

"So, if he's in the hospital, where he should be, of course, why are you so worried?"

Steve glanced around again. "It's been almost 24 hours since I saw him, and I haven't heard from his doctor. I left word where to find me, but so far, nothing. I –"

"Well, no news is good news, right?" Haseejian interrupted, trying to sound optimistic.

Steve quick nod was conceding, but his voice was laced with worry as he continued. "But this is Mike, remember? I have this really bad feeling that he told the doctor not to get in touch with me until all of this," he gestured vaguely around the room, "is over, one way or the other."

"Well, have you tried calling the hospital?"

Steve nodded. "Yeah, I did, just after we met with the CI. A payphone on the street." Haseejian could see the young inspector's anger quotient begin to rise. "They told me they couldn't give out any patient information over the phone, but especially not to anyone who was not an immediate family member." He sounded bitter and sad.

Haseejian clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Well, I wouldn't worry right now; he's probably doing just fine. I'm sure the doctor would find a way to get through to you if there was an emergency." He thought for a second. "Look, things are moving at a breakneck pace right now, thank god, but it's gonna slow down at some point, I'm sure; waiting on a warrant or something like that. When that happens – and I know you're gonna want to be here when we wrap this up – but you can probably slip away for an hour to two and give Mike a visit for all of us, okay? I think he needs to know how all this," he gestured at the activity around the room, "is happening because of him." He finished with a smile.

Steve stared at his colleague with warm appreciation. "Thanks, Norm," he said quietly, slapping Haseejian's back fondly.

In a gesture so reminiscent of his partner, Steve felt Haseejian grab the back of his neck and he was shaken gently. "Don't worry about Mike, he's a fighter, right?"

Steve nodded and smiled affectionately. "Right, right," he agreed, but to himself he whispered, "I hope so."


	20. Chapter 20

Less than three hours after Healey relayed word about the two guns dumped in the Bay off Telegraph Hill, they got the call at the Oakland office that the guns had been found and were now in the lab at 850 Bryant. They had been identified as brand new short-barreled S&W M29's; phone calls were now being made to every gun shop in San Francisco, San Mateo, Santa Clara and Alameda counties.

On the minus side, both Sampson and Johnson continued to refuse to name their accomplice, no matter how many threats hung over their heads. The cops couldn't tell if their silence was due to loyalty or fear; they suspected fear.

It had been determined that the 'rich white boy' did not attend Oakland High; officers were busy contacting Oakland private school principals to see if anyone could shed some light on what little knowledge they had of this mysterious third party.

Steve, Elliott and Stewart were working together coordinating the information coming in about gun sales. It was Elliott that first found the link: a gun shop in Livermore and another in Palo Alto both had recorded purchases of short-barreled S&W M29's only one day apart, to someone named Daniel Morrison. Though the guns had been paid for in cash, both shop owners had done their due diligence in recording the purchasers name and address.

However it didn't take long to learn that while the name was credible and there were a number of Daniel Morrisons to check out, the address was definitely fictitious.

Members of this new, larger task force fanned out – to private school offices for meetings with principals, to track down the various Daniel Morrisons and to the Livermore and Palo Alto gun shops. Soon after another gun shop was identified, this one in Millbrae.

It was early in the evening when several teams of detectives returned to the office, some with copies of private school yearbooks, others with detailed descriptions of the gun buyer from the shop owners and staffs. What had stuck out for them, they said, was the young age of the purchaser and the fact that he paid in cash; but his bona fides seemed in order, he was a polite, well-dressed young man, and no one suspected anything amiss.

Coordinating all this information, Steve, Elliott and Stewart sat with the others and began poring over the yearbooks, highlighting potential candidates that warranted further inquiry.

It was getting dark by then, and pizzas and heros had been brought in; the office was now littered with pizza boxes, paper bags, used napkins and soda cans, as well as a couple of dozen very tired but very determined police officers.

Just before 10 p.m., a short list of potential 'candidates' had been compiled; there were only eight names on the list. Stewart sat back and stretched, then looked at the other men in the room. "Well, gentlemen, any suggestions?"

Gil Rountree sighed loudly before he began. "Paul, Dan and I think this kid'll crack, if we hit him just the right way. So far, because we haven't gotten him to rat out that third kid, he thinks he's in the driver's seat." He paused for a second. "I say we make an 8-pack out of these kids," he gestured at the short list photos, "bring it in there and drop it on the table in front of him. I don't think he's gonna be able to hide his reaction when he sees that we have his accomplice in the mix."

Stewart nodded thoughtfully, then noticed that most of the others in the room were doing the same. He looked at Steve. "What do you think?"

"I think it's brilliant. Right now, it's the only thing we have, right? I say go for it; what do we have to lose?"

Stewart nodded again, this time more emphatically. "Let's do it."

# # # # #

Twenty minutes later, Rountree walked into the interrogation room with the '8-pack' in his hand. Romero was already there, sitting silently opposite the now-exhausted and unresponsive Sampson.

"Robert!" Rountree yelled and the young man's head snapped up suddenly, cringing slightly, his hands coming up defensively. "Wake up, son, we're not finished with you yet."

Glancing quickly at Romero to make sure he was ready, Rountree tossed the photo array on the table. Sampson's gaze travelled to it unhurriedly,

sliding over the photos without interest until suddenly his eyes widened slightly and he hesitated almost imperceptively. But the seasoned detectives had seen it and now they pounced.

"Recognize anybody?" Rountree asked quietly.

It took a couple of seconds for Sampson to raise his head from the array.

"What?" he mumbled.

"I said, recognize anybody? Like this guy," he said quietly, pointing at the photo that Sampson had hesitated over.

"No, sir," Sampson said sullenly, leaning back and folding his arms. "I don't recognize nobody."

It was Romero turn to smile. "Sure you do, you little piece of crap. And now, because of you, we've got your accomplice." He stood up and started towards the door. "Thanks, B-Bob, you've been a prince."

As Romero opened the door, Rountree turned to follow him, then looked back at the now terrified Sampson. "You know, you're probably better off staying in here right now – there's a lot of guys in the other room who's partners you and your friends shot. And I'm not sure Dan and I can keep them 'under control', if you know what I mean." With a mirthless smile, he left the room.

# # # # #

Stewart had a closer look at the photo Romero pointed out. He hesitated a few seconds before turning to one of his detectives. "Peter, give Andre a call; tell him we need him here right away."

Stewart faced the San Francisco detectives. "Andre Cavallero is our ADA; I want him to start drafting a warrant. Steve, you might want to get your ADA over here right now as well. We're gonna have to move fast on this, and I want to make sure all our i's are dotted and our t's are crossed. This is not going to be an easy one."

Stewart showed the photo to Coleman, whose face went white. "Ah, shit, it would be him."

At the blank stares from the SF cops, Stewart elaborated. "Gentlemen, this here is Walter Annenberg the Third, scion of one of the wealthiest and most politically connected families in Oakland. They have more money than every member of both our departments put together. They are gonna lawyer-up faster than we can blink, so I think our best bet right now, and I will confer with Andre on this, is to go for a search warrant first, then go for the arrest warrant when we have more concrete evidence."

"Jerry, Bob," Stewart addressed his colleagues, "let's get SWAT in on this, talk to Martin. After I meet with Andre, and if he agrees we have enough to get a search warrant, I want to move on this right away, even if it's 3 or 4 this morning. I do not want this little asshole to find out in some way that we are interested in him and have him disappear. If Andre thinks we have enough for the warrant, I want to get the house surrounded as soon as possible, discreetly of course, until we have the paper in hand.

"John, Steve, Jack, all of you guys, we want you in on this too, of course; this is more your case than ours, it just happens to be on our turf."

The San Francisco detectives nodded appreciatively. Steve hooked a thumb over his shoulder. "I'm gonna call our ADA, get him over here."

# # # # #

San Francisco ADA Gerald O'Brien, Oakland ADA Andre Cavellero, Captain Paul Stewart and Lieutenant John Yu had holed up in Stewart's office, painstakingly going over every detail that the task force had cobbled together over the past twelve hours. Everyone was well aware of the gravity of the situation, and the need to make sure that every detail was in checked and doublechecked, every duck was in a row, before they even thought of taking their request to a judge.

A list of police friendly Oakland County judges had been compiled; they also needed one who would not object to being roused in the wee small hours of the morning. But because of the gravity of this particular case, no one thought that any of the selected judges would take issue.

Haseejian took the opportunity to sidle up to Steve, who was sitting at a desk reading a file. "Hey, kiddo," he began quietly as he pulled a chair closer and sat, "it's gonna be a couple of hours at least until those guys come out of there with a request for the warrant. And then we gotta get it signed." He glanced at his watch. "Why don't you take one of the cars and go pay Mike a visit? Just so you can, you know, ease your mind a bit before all this shit hits the fan."

Steve looked at his own watch, giving Haseejian's words serious consideration. He took a deep breath then nodded. "Yeah, yeah, I'd like that," he said softly but hesitantly.

"Look," Haseejian said quickly, "give me the number of the hospital. You go spend some time with Mike, and I'll make sure I call in plenty of time for you get back here when all this goes down. What do you say?"

Steve thought it over for a bit and then nodded. "That sounds good. Look, I better tell Captain Stewart –"

"You go ahead, I'll tell the Captain. And, I'll be discreet," he added quickly.

"Thanks," Steve said as he stood.

Haseejian took his arm. "You give Mike our best, okay?"

Steve smiled warmly. "You bet. Thanks, Norm."

# # # # #

Steve stepped off the elevator on the fifth floor. It was just after one in the morning; the lights in the hallway were dimmed, the sounds muted.

As Steve approached the nurse's station, a middle-aged woman glanced up in his direction then started slightly. "I'm sorry, sir," she said quietly but firmly, "there are no visitors allowed at this time of night."

Reluctantly, Steve fished his star out of his pocket and held it out. "I'm here to see Lieutenant Michael Stone."

The nurse's expression changed instantly. "Oh, yes, you must be Inspector Keller?" At his nod, she continued, "I'm afraid the lieutenant's no longer on this floor. He was moved to Intensive Care earlier today. Let me call Dr. Peters and have him meet you –"

As she reached for the phone, the inspector turned quickly and disappeared back down the corridor towards the elevators.

# # # # #

Steve slammed the swinging door to the ICU open, covering ground as quickly as he could without breaking into a run. His eyes rapidly scanned the cubicle numbers, his mouth tightly closed, breathing rapidly and furiously through his nose as he fought to control his anger.

He found the number he was looking for and slid to a stop. He shut his eyes for a few seconds as he struggled to calm down, then he stepped into the doorway and froze. Almost immediately there was a presence at his side and a hand on his arm. He turned his head and met Dr. Peters' eyes directly and defiantly.

Before Steve could say anything, Peters said quickly, "He made me promise I wouldn't call you." The doctor saw the cop deflate slightly and catch his breath. "He wanted you to be able to concentrate on your job."

Steve looked back at the bed, pulled his arm from Peters grasp, and moved deeper into the room. Even with the pounding of his own blood in his ears, he was acutely aware of the whoosh, click of the ventilator. Biting his lower lip, he reached out to lay a shaking hand on the top of his unconscious partner's head, stroking his hair gently as he collapsed onto the chair with a barely suppressed whimper.


	21. Chapter 21

Slowly and gently, Steve picked up Mike's left hand and brought it to his lips. He stared at his partner's face, peripherally watching the mechanical rise and fall of his chest in sync with the rhythmic whoosh and click of the ventilator. He was vaguely aware of Dr. Peters moving closer behind him. He felt the young doctor's hand on his shoulder.

"You're probably not going to believe me right now, but Mike's going to be okay," Peters said quietly. When Steve didn't move or acknowledge his comment, Peters continued, "The pneumonia was making it harder and harder for him to breathe and he was exhausted. He's on a much stronger antibiotic now and it _will_ work, but his body needs the strength to fight and breathing on his own was too hard on his system." Peters saw Steve's head turn slightly in his direction, like he was focusing with greater intensity on what the doctor was saying.

Emboldened, Peters began to speak more confidently. "The decision to put him on the ventilator was not made lightly. But it was done to alleviate the work his lungs were having to do and allow the antibiotics to do their thing. The pain killers we're giving him knocked him out, but at least he's finally getting some rest." He paused slightly. "If everything works like it should, he'll be taken off the ventilator later on this morning."

Steve felt Peters' hand tighten on his shoulder and he turned his head to meet the doctor's eyes. Peters smiled encouragingly. "He _is_ going to be okay, Steve. I wouldn't lie to you."

Happily Peters saw the young cop relax slightly and all but smile. Almost inaudibly, Peters heard him say, "I'm, ah, I'm really sorry. It's…it's just been such an horrific couple of weeks…"

Peters squeezed Steve's shoulder even harder. "You don't have to explain," he said kindly, then reached out and pulled another chair closer to the bed before sitting.

Steve turned to look at him, really seeing the young doctor for the first time. Peters looked exhausted and disheveled, and it suddenly dawned on Steve that every time he had been at the hospital with Mike, Peters had been there as well. "Why are you here?" Steve asked with a perplexed smile.

Peters did a small double take, bewildered. "What do you mean?"

"It's just, well, every time I've been here, you're here too. Don't you get any downtime?"

Peters snorted almost self-consciously. "Well…" he started slowly, "I'm really not on duty right now. I haven't been for over twenty-four hours."

At Steve's confused stare, he smiled shyly. "How do I explain this?" he said very softly, almost to himself. "That Monday, when Mike was admitted after the shooting, and everything else was going on, all that chaos that we went through? Well, it became very important not only to me, but to everyone in this hospital, that every police officer that was admitted here that day would eventually walk out of here." He looked away suddenly, unable to meet Steve's stare.

Peters cleared his throat. "There was something about Mike," he chuckled and shook his head, "I'm not even sure what it was, maybe he reminded me of my father - or the way I wish my father had been - and your relationship with him… Anyway," he said with a heavy sigh, "I just knew that I had to keep you two together." He looked at Steve sideways, embarrassed.

Steve expression was warm and understanding, and Peters smiled self-consciously. "So I, ah, I talked to the head of the Critical Care department and told him I wanted to stay on Mike's case, that I would do it on my own time; he agreed, so I took a leave of absence and, ah, here I am. There's a couple of cots in a room on the third floor that we use; I've been grabbing some z's when I can."

Peters smiled to himself as he sat back and folded his arms. "There are times in your life when you just have to do the right thing, no matter what. For me, this is one of those times; it's really a no-brainer."

Steve was staring at his partner, his expression turned melancholy; Peters words had hit close to home. He took a deep long inhale. "I don't know how I'll ever thank you," he began quietly then found himself unable to continue.

Peters chuckled slightly. "Just seeing him walk out of here with you, that's going to be thanks enough, believe me." He looked at Steve out of the corner of his eye. "The world needs more good guys, and I really believe he's one of the good guys."

Steve chortled in spite of himself. "You have no idea."

The silence lengthened between them as they continued to stare at the man in the bed, then Peters yawned loudly and stood up. "I really should get some more sleep," he said wearily, slapping Steve on the shoulder. "Things are going to get busy in the morning when we take him off the ventilator."

He had made it to the door before Steve's "Dr. Peters?" stopped him. He turned into the inspector's grateful stare. "Thank you, for everything."

Peters smiled broadly. "You both are very welcome," he said with a smile as he left the cubicle.

Steve turned back to the bed; he was still holding Mike's hand. He dropped his head into his free hand and stayed that way for several long seconds, gathering his thoughts, willing himself to believe Peters optimistic prognosis.

Then, with a mischievous smile building slowly, he raised his head and stared at his motionless partner. "Do you know how badly I am going to kick your ass when you get out of here? Trying to keep me in the dark? I know you too well, Michael."

Steve settled back in the chair, hoping his presence was giving his partner strength, knowing that in their simple touch, the most important aspect in his life was still solid and real and very much alive.

# # # # #

O'Brien and Cavellero walked into the office deep in conversation, Yu and Stewart close behind. The few remaining members of the task force still in the building gathered around them in anticipation. Cavallero took a spot in the centre of the room and looked around appreciatively before he began.

"Gentlemen, I must say, this," he held up a raft of papers, "is very impressive, especially considering the short amount of time you've had to do it." He turned to Stewart. "Paul, everybody should be very proud of themselves. And I think Gerry," he continued with a grin, indicating O'Brien, "will agree with me that we see no problem in issuing a warrant for the search of the Annenberg home, garage, property and vehicles." With that, he handed the requisite paperwork over to the Oakland captain.

"So," Cavellero continued, "what judge have you lined up to sign this?"

Stewart sighed. "We're gonna try Atwater first, and if he doesn't agree, we've got Carson next on the list."

Cavellero nodded. "Atwater…good choice. You want Gerry and I to go with you? I mean, someone is going to have to sweet-talk him when you wake him up at four in the morning."

"That would be perfect, thank you. Just let me get in touch with Jerry Coleman, our man on the street, so to speak, right now. Let him know we should be ready to roll hopefully within the hour."

# # # # #

Coleman hung up the radio mic. "So that's it, we just wait for the judge's signature and Paul to get that piece of paper over here and we're good to go." He glanced around the car. "I'm just going to go talk to the others, get them up to speed." He got out of the car and disappeared into the darkness.

Their car was parked on a residential street four blocks from the Annenberg house. Stewart, Haseejian, Elliott and Rountree had been sitting in the unmarked sedan for over two hours, drinking coffee, swapping 'war' stories and waiting, the tension ever present but not obviously apparent.

Almost three hours earlier, as they were leaving the Oakland PD Headquarters on their way to the cars, Elliott had fallen into step beside Haseejian. "Where's Steve?" he whispered, glancing around.

"What?"

"You heard me," Elliott said curtly, "I saw him leave about a half-hour ago. Where did he go?"

"Ah, he just had some errands to run," Haseejian said feebly, knowing that the young inspector wasn't going to let him easily off the hook.

"That's crap, Norm. It is Mike, isn't it? Something's happened to Mike."

Haseejian looked around nervously. "Keep your voice down. Steve doesn't want anybody to know," he said quickly and quietly.

"I knew it. I told you," Elliott spat out. "What's going on?"

"Okay, if I tell you," Haseejian stopped himself, then took a quick breath, lowering his own voice, "if I tell you, you have to promise it doesn't go any further, alright?"

"I promise," Elliott hissed, losing patience.

"Mike's back in the hospital, pneumonia."

Elliott caught his breath. "Sonofabitch."

"Steve's gone to see him. I'm gonna give him a call when the warrant is signed so he can get back here for the search."

They had reached the car. Haseejian turned to his colleague. "This stays between us, right?"

Elliott nodded distractedly as he got into the back seat of the dark green unmarked sedan.

Now, as Coleman left the car to talk to the others, and Rountree got out to stretch his legs, Haseejian turned to Elliott, who had become quieter and more detached during their wait. "Are you okay?" When there was no response, Haseejian elbowed him. "Jack, are you still with us?" he asked with a chuckle.

Elliott turned to him slowly, his eyes dark and angry. He started to shake his head. "I can't let this happen," he said quietly.

"What?"

Elliott shook his head again. "I can't let this happen." He opened the car door and got out.

"Jack? Jack? Where are you –?"

Elliott slammed the door and began to walk off across the street. Haseejian opened his own door and got out, trying to keep his voice low but forceful. "Jack! Where are you going?"

As Haseejian watched, Elliott broke into a rapid jog and quickly disappeared around a corner. Haseejian started to run in an attempt to catch up, but when he got to the end of the street, Elliott was nowhere to be found.

Angrily, Haseejian raced back to the car, opened the front door and grabbed the mic. "Gentlemen, I think we have a problem."

# # # # #

Steve snapped awake when he felt someone touch his shoulder. He realized quickly he was still in the chair at Mike's bedside. A quick glance at his partner told him that all was well there; he turned to look over his shoulder. A nurse was standing behind him.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you, Inspector, but you have a phone call. A Captain Olsen says it's an emergency."

"Olsen?" Steve said to himself under his breath. He was expecting a call from Haseejian but not Olsen. "Thank you," he said as he stood, releasing Mike's hand. He followed her out to the nurse's station.

"Yeah, Rudy, what's going on?" he said when he picked up the receiver.

"Steve, I need you to get back to Oakland as quick as you can." Rudy sounded breathless and agitated. "To the Annenbergs."

"They've got that warrant -?"

"No," Olsen cut him off. "They're still waiting on that. It's Jack. While they were waiting for the warrant, Jack just got out of the car and forced his way into their house. He's holding the son at gunpoint and he's threatening to kill him."


	22. Chapter 22

Steve slammed the receiver down, turned quickly and headed back to Mike's ICU cubicle. He approached the bed quietly and stared at his partner for several seconds. "I have to go," he said softly, "but I'll be back as soon as I can. I expect to find you awake and talking to me when I do." He bent over the bed and gave Mike a gentle kiss on the forehead, laying a hand lightly on his chest. "I love you," he whispered then stepped back and left the room.

# # # # #

"How the hell did he get in there?" Steve demanded as he got out of the car opposite the Annenberg house and slammed the door. Stewart, Coleman and Haseejian jogged over to him, all three looking distraught.

The Annenberg house was now surrounded by a cluster of marked and unmarked police cars, uniformed and plainclothes officers, and enough firepower to start a small war. The SWAT unit was ready and standing by, hovering near their vehicle down the block.

Coleman filled Steve in as they fell into step on their way to the mansion.

"The maid and cook had just arrived by bus and entered the house. Jack just walked up the front door and knocked, and they let him in. How he got to the kid, we don't know, but according to Annenberg senior, who we have on the phone, Jack has the boy in his room with a gun to his head." Coleman grabbed Steve by the arm to stop him. "He asked for you."

Steve looked from the house to Stewart. "Do I go in with my weapon or leave it here?" He had seen Mike disarm himself in similar situations; it was always a difficult decision.

"So, you're okay doing this?" Stewart asked, meeting Steve's eyes evenly. Steve thought about it for a couple of seconds then nodded forcefully. "I'd say keep it on you, but you might want to take it out of your holster and slip it behind your back."

Steve nodded again. "So, what are my options?"

"Well, why do you think he's doing this? What is he thinking?"

"It's got to be about Charlie," Steve said quietly, eyes down. Raising his gaze to meet Stewart's, he continued, "Charlie was a lot more to Jack than just a partner; he really became his father. Jack hasn't been dealing with it very well. If he thinks this kid killed Charlie… " Steve let the thought linger.

It was Stewart's turn to nod. "All right, well, just…just do what you think is right, what you need to do. Our ultimate goal is to get both of them out of there alive, but… well…" He finished with a resigned shrug.

Steve looked back at the house, then started towards it, sliding the .38 out of the holster on his left hip and slipping it inside his belt at the small of his back, under his jacket. With a quick look back towards the street, briefly meeting Haseejian's worried stare, he crossed the threshold into the house.

# # # # #

Steve moved slowly and quietly down the long hallway. As he passed what seemed to be a library, he saw an older man and woman standing in the centre of the room, the man holding a phone. They stared at him in horror then the man pointed to his right, further along the hallway Steve was in.

Continuing, listening for any sound that would alert him to the direction he needed to go, he eventually made out what sounded like a terrified sob. "Jack?!" he called out.

There was another louder sob, almost a gasp, and Steve followed the sound to a door, slightly ajar, on his right. Steve pushed the door open slowly. It was a large bedroom, obviously belonging to a teenaged boy, replete with rock band posters, a large unmade bed, piles of clothes on the floor, and a drum kit in one corner.

In another corner, out of the line of sight of the window, Jack Elliott sat on the floor with his back to the walls, his left arm around the neck of a petrified dark-haired teenager, his Police Special .38 held to the boy's right temple.

Annenberg, in pajama bottoms and a white t-shirt, stared at Steve in wide-eyed terror, his skin of his face and arms shiny with sweat. His chest was heaving, his breath coming in gasping sobs.

Elliott's head was back against the wall, face contorted in grief, tears streaming down his cheeks. He looked highly agitated and out of control.

Without taking his eyes from Elliott's, Steve stepped carefully into the room then slowly lowered himself to sit cross-legged on the carpet. Seated, his hands folded in front of him, he asked calmly, "So what's going on here, Jack?"

Elliott snorted, shaking his head. "Steve, I want you to meet Walter Annenberg the Third," he said derisively, pushing the barrel of his gun harder into the teenager's temple. Annenberg flinched and tried to stifle a whimper. "Walter," he said loudly into the young man's ear, "this is Inspector Steve Keller. He's a cop like me. And you, you little shit, you shot his partner too."

Annenberg's eyes widened, as Steve struggled to keep his expression neutral.

"But Steve's partner, his name is Mike by the way, he survived your little…attack. That is, until today, right Steve?"

Steve was taken aback by the question, and there was a slight hesitation before he answered, "Jack, he's fine, Mike's gonna be fine."

"But he's back in the hospital, isn't he? He has pneumonia, right? That's where you were just now, wasn't it? Visiting him. Am I right?"

Steve nodded reluctantly, suddenly furious that somehow Elliott had found out.

Elliott shook his head angrily again. "You see, you little shit, you not only killed my partner, you're killing his as well."

"Jack, Mike's not -!" Steve started sharply but was brought up short when Elliott quickly swung the barrel of the .38 towards him.

No one moved for several seconds then Elliott smiled coldly and brought the gun back to Annenberg's temple. The teenager closed his eyes, trying not to whimper.

"Well," Elliott began casually, "I hope Mike makes it, I really do, but, you know, that really doesn't distract us from the fact that this little piece of scum killed Charlie." He taped Annenberg's head with the barrel of the revolver and the boy flinched, sobbing.

"Then let the courts deal with him, Jack. You know we have him dead to rights, we're getting a warrant –"

"A warrant," Jack snorted. "Right, yeah, that'll do it. Do you know how much money this little shit's family has, Steve?" he asked facetiously. "They could buy and sell us in a heartbeat. Do you really think his parents are going let their little darling here go to prison for something as, I don't know, as petty as killing a cop or two?"

Steve was becoming ever more alarmed as Elliott seemed to be winding himself up; he was getting too worked up to allow this back-and-forth to go on forever. Steve figured it was time to play his trump card. "Jack," he began slowly, "do you really think this is the way Charlie would want you to play this? Judge, jury…. executioner?"

Elliott snorted again. "Charlie? What do you know about Charlie?" Elliott's face crumbled and the tears began to flow harder. Steve let the silence lengthen. "Charlie was more to me than just a partner," Elliott continued quietly. "He was the one person, the only person I could count on in this miserable life." His stare was down, unfocused.

Steve sat up a little straighter, sensing a possible breakthrough. "He believed in you, didn't he?" he asked softly, and watched as Elliott nodded slightly, almost absent-mindedly. "He loved you." Another nod. "Then don't do this to him, Jack. Don't destroy his legacy by doing something that you know with all your heart he wouldn't want you to do."

Elliott's head came up quickly. "Legacy?" he snorted. "What the hell are you talking about? I was never Charlie's 'legacy'. I was his handicap. I was the one he should have been proud of and all I did was make his life a living hell." Elliott's voice had dropped to a whisper and the barrel of the gun lowered slightly.

Steve saw Annenberg's eyes staring at the gun barrel and he thought he could see the teenager begin to weigh the odds of turning the tables on Elliott. Steve's shifted slightly, just enough to catch Annenberg's attention, and the cop's slightly widened eyes and unswerving stare quickly convinced the young man to abandon any idea of trying to get the upper hand.

Steve shifted his attention back to Elliott. "But that didn't stop him from loving you, did it?" Elliott didn't react. "Jack, you know that, right?"

There was a reluctant nod. Steve took a calming breath; maybe he was actually making headway here. He was just about to reach out toward Elliott and ask for the gun when Annenberg slammed his elbow into Elliott's ribs and tried to pull away.

Instantaneously, all of Elliott's cop instincts kicked in and he wrestled the younger man back under control before Steve could react. An uneasy silence filled the room, Annenberg and Elliott gasping for breath. Steve closed his eyes in frustration; he knew now that any chance for a peaceful resolution had disappeared.

Elliott drilled the gun barrel into the side of Annenberg's head once again then turned to Steve. The grin that appeared was cold and mirthless; Elliott had given up. "You keep talking about Charlie," he said flatly, then snorted. "Police interrogation technique 101. Nice try, Steve. But you know, there's nothing I can do to make Charlie proud of me. He tried, but he couldn't help me. Nobody can. You know what I did after he died? I'm sure you do, but I'm gonna tell you anyway. I went back to Vegas. Yeah, even after I promised him I would never do that again. Charlie dies, and I go back to Vegas." He paused, laughing icily. "And I really outdid myself that time. I was there for less than 24 hours, and I came home over thirty thousand dollars in debt." He stared into Steve's eyes, his own sadly dead.

Elliott tightened his grip around Annenberg's neck, making the teenager stiffen in fear, then he lowered his eyes, and the gun, to his lap. Nobody moved.

Elliott lifted his head to look at Steve. "I couldn't do anything for Charlie when he was alive," he said wistfully, "but I can do this for him now." He raised the gun and pulled the trigger.

"Jack no!"

The roar of the .38 in the enclosed room was overpowering.


	23. Chapter 23

Rudy Olsen put the receiver down and looked out the window. The sky was grey and he could see the trees swaying in the wind. 'That's somehow appropriate,' he thought to himself as he sat unmoving behind his desk, feeling sad and drained and suddenly very old.

With a resigned sigh, he picked up the receiver again, punched a button, dialed two numbers and waited. "Phil, bring the car around to the front please. We have to get over to Oakland… Thanks."

He lowered the receiver slowly, trying to stop his hand from trembling. Was this nightmare ever going to end?

# # # # #

Sergeants Norm Haseejian and Dan Healey were sitting silently on either side of a desk in the Oakland Homicide Department, arms folded, heads down, both lost in their own worlds. The OPD detectives in the room were giving them space, keeping their voices down, respecting the heartache they were enduring.

Haseejian looked towards the door at the far end of the room. He knew very well what was going on behind the closed door, and his heart went out to everyone in that room. He wished he could be in there to offer support and comfort, but knew also knew that that was impossible; all he could do was wait and be there when it was all over.

Healey glanced at his watch; it was already almost noon. He could see the dark clouds out the office windows and how rain was beginning to hit the glass. He snorted quietly to himself; the weather matched the mood in the room, he thought sadly.

He caught Haseejian's glance towards the far door and turned to look himself. He sighed louder than he had intended, and saw the Armenian's moist eyes swivel in his direction. They stared at each other for a few seconds then Healey nodded and smiled slightly, companionably, before looking away. He had never felt so helpless.

# # # # #

Dr. Peters stood beside the bed, watching his patient sleep. Three hours earlier, he had successfully weaned Mike from the ventilator and the detective was now breathing on his own with the assistance of an oxygen mask.

The doctor had been expecting to see Steve, and when the cop didn't show up, he began to get a little worried. Peters was aware of the early morning phone call Steve had received, and the urgency with which he had left, but he kept his concern from his patient. Mike was still unaware that his partner had visited during the night and Peters intended to keep it that way.

Then, about an hour ago, Peters had received a call from a Captain Olsen, then same man who had called Steve earlier. After inquiring about his colleague's health, Olsen had informed the doctor in the vaguest terms about what had transpired in Oakland that morning. He wanted the doctor to know what was going on, and what to say to Mike should the detective become suspicious and inquire.

With a heavy heart, Peters hung up the phone and returned to the ICU cubicle. Mike, his strength depleted, had fallen asleep. The doctor sat in the chair beside the bed and put his hand over Mike's comfortingly, trying to think through how he would explain to the older man the reason for his partner's absence.

# # # # #

Captain Rudy Olsen walked into the OPD Homicide Office and quickly located his two sergeants. Haseejian and Healey stood immediately, and they shook hands silently and solemnly.

"Are they still talking?" Olsen asked.

Haseejian nodded. "Yeah. In there." He gestured towards the door at the far end of the room, where the window blinds had been drawn.

"They've been at it for over three hours," Healey added, sounding partly angry, partly resigned.

"Well, it's not easy for anybody," Olsen offered. "I just want get him over to the hospital."

Both Healey and Haseejian looked at Olsen with concern. Olsen put his hands up. "Mike's doing better, a lot better," he said quickly, "I just think it'll be good for both of them, and the sooner the better."

The sergeants nodded, looking back at the door, as if their stares could make it open.

# # # # #

Shortly after 2 p.m. the meeting room door opened and its occupants began to file out, sombre and silent. Captain Stewart crossed to Olsen and introduced himself. Rountree and Romero walked slowly to their desks. Behind them, Cavallero exited the room, closely followed by Gerry O'Brien, who had his arm around Steve's shoulders.

Olsen had never seen the young inspector look so miserable. Anguish was writ large across his handsome face, and Olsen's heart went out to him; nobody wanted to see this, yet, in reality, nobody wanted to be in his shoes right now. It was an impossibly difficult situation.

Olsen reached out and put a hand on the back of Steve's neck, making sure the younger man met his eyes. "How are you holding up?" he asked kindly when he did.

Steve shrugged slightly, eyebrows raised. But he remained quiet. Olsen turned to Stewart. "Is it okay with you guys if I take Steve back to San Francisco, so he can see his partner?" He saw the inspector's eyes widen slightly.

Stewart looked to Cavallero, who nodded. "Of course," the ADA said, "we've done everything we can for now." He turned to the young man they were talking about. "Steve," he said, shaking his hand, "thank you. I know how hard this has been for you. And I know there is much more we have to do." He smiled and clapped the young man on the back. "Go see your partner, tell him we wish him well and that we're looking forward to meeting him when he's back to work."

Steve smiled gratefully. "Thank you, I will."

Olsen took him by the elbow. "Phil's waiting in car," he explained quietly as he led the young detective toward the door.

# # # # #

The ride back to San Francisco was done in complete silence. Steve sat in the back with Haseejian; Tanner, Lessing, Healey and Panetta were in the car behind. No one had had any sleep for over thirty-six hours and the tension and fatigue was beginning to show on everyone. But they were all determined to ensure that their colleague was safe, in every connotation of that word.

Haseejian glanced across the seat at Steve, who was staring out the side window, his face expressionless. He resisted the urge to reach over and lay a comforting hand on the young man's arm.

The dark green LTD pulled up in front of Franklin's main entrance. Olsen, Haseejian and Steve got out; Olsen leaned back into the car. "You can go back to the office," he said to Polanski, "I'm gonna stay here for awhile. I'll catch a cab back later."

Polanski nodded and drove off, as the three were joined by Lessing, Healey and Tanner. Haseejian had gone ahead of the rest, and as the five police officers entered the large grey building, he crossed to meet them.

"Mike's in Room 515," he informed them as they crossed towards the elevators.

Steve smiled slightly to himself; that meant Mike was no longer in ICU, a good sign. He needed some good news right now.

The six weary cops strode purposefully down the fifth floor corridor. Steve was not at all surprised to see Dr. Peters waiting for them at the nurse's station. Since his conversation with Olsen several hours earlier, the doctor had been anticipating Steve's eventual arrival.

But he was unprepared for the look of devastation on the inspector's face, realizing much more had transpired that morning than he was aware of, obviously. He hoped the news he was about to impart would go a long way in helping to restore Steve's peace of mind.

Peters smiled as the cops approached, meeting Steve's stare evenly. Without bothering with salutations, he said cheerfully, "Mike's doing great. He's off the ventilator and breathing on his own. He's very tired and sleeping most of the time, but he's going to be very happy to see you."

At the mention of the ventilator, the other members of group exchanged worried glances; none of them had been aware of that troubling development, and they wondered what else Steve had kept from them.

Steve smiled and nodded but there was a troubling solemnity that they all noted. Peters glanced nervously at Olsen, who smiled encouragingly, then gestured towards the door of Room 515. Steve crossed to the door and stopped, took a deep breath, then opened the door and entered the room, closing the door quietly.

Olsen turned to Peters and introduced himself. As they shook hands, Olsen looked once more towards the hospital room door. "I don't think I've ever seen two people who need each other so desperately as those two right now." He looked at the young doctor. "Thank you for making that possible."

# # # # #

Steve stood with his back to the closed door and stared at the bed, unwilling, and unable, to move any closer.

With the bed raised about forty degrees and his head resting on a couple of thin pillows, Mike Stone, the oxygen mask covering half his face, lay eerily still, his eyes closed. He was attached to an IV drip and a heart monitor, but Steve could see the comforting, regular rise and fall of his chest.

Steve ran both hands over his face. He knew he had to get control of his roiling emotions before he could face his partner, well aware that Mike needed to be stronger before he had to face the realities of the past few hours.

Steadying himself, Steve quietly approached the bed. Sensing the presence, Mike's eyes opened and his head turned slightly. He smiled as best he could under the mask, obviously relieved to see his partner standing beside him. He tried to lift his left hand off the bed.

With his own genuine smile, Steve leaned over the bed, taking Mike's hand in one of his, stroking the hair back from his forehead with the other. They stared at one another for several long seconds.

Finally, Steve asked quietly, "How are you doing?" He felt Mike's fingers tighten slightly around his own, and the older man nodded slowly.

"Better," Mike's voice once again muffled under the mask. "Tired."

Steve nodded back. "I'm sure. Look, you go back to sleep; I'm just gonna sit here and keep you company, okay?"

"I'd like that."

Steve crossed to the corner of the room to get a chair. He noticed a cot pushed against the wall and smiled. Putting the chair down quietly beside the bed, he was about to sit when Mike's voice stopped him.

"Did you get them?"

Steve froze then met Mike's eyes evenly. He hoped his confirming smile didn't belie his anxiety. He nodded slowly, "Yeah, yeah, we got 'em. I'll tell you all about it when you're feeling better, okay?" He sat slowly, leaning over the bed and picking up Mike's hand again. "I just want you to get better so we can go home and get our lives back," he finished softly, sadly, almost hoping that Mike didn't hear him.

Mike wrapped his fingers around his partner's hand, basking in his presence, feeling for the first time in a long time that there was going to finally be an ending to all this tragedy and pain. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to sink back down into unconsciousness.

Steve watched as sleep overtook his partner and, gripping his hand tighter, leaned back in the chair and let the grief and despair he had been fighting for the last few hours to quietly emerge.


	24. Chapter 24

He floated up to consciousness slowly, somehow knowing that it was suddenly very important that he do so. He struggled to focus, both mentally and audibly. The sound that had disturbed him was hushed, subdued, but unmistakable.

When he felt capable of opening his eyes, he did so, staring at the ceiling as he attempted to gain control over the exhaustion and discomfort that wracked his entire body. Carefully, he turned his head to look at his companion.

Steve was slumped in the chair beside the bed, head in his hands, his shoulders shaking in silent sobs. Instinctively Mike realized that this uncharacteristic behaviour was not related to his own situation; this pain and anguish went much deeper.

Mustering all his strength, Mike reached out and was grateful that he was close enough to be able to lay his hand over one of his partner's. Steve flinched, not anticipating the touch, and his head snapped back.

"I'm sorry," he gasped, "I didn't mean to –"

Mike shook his head, cutting him off, staring into his eyes. "What's wrong?" he asked softly.

It was Steve's turn to shake his head. "No, nothing…not now…you need to –"

Mike cocked his head. "Steve," he said with as much firmness as he could summon up, "talk to me."

The young man's face crumbled and he ran a hand over his eyes, wiping away the tears.

"What happened?" Mike asked quietly, grasping his partner's hand in an attempt to pull him closer to the bed.

Steve hadn't wanted to do this right now; he had wanted to put more time between himself and what had happened that morning, and he also wanted Mike to be stronger. But suddenly he was not being given much of a choice; even in his debilitated state, Mike Stone was a force to be reckoned with.

With a resigned half-smile in spite of himself, Steve slid the chair closer, took Mike's hand in both of his, propped his elbows on the bed and stared into his partner's sympathetic blue eyes. He took a deep breath. "You really want to hear this right now?" he asked softly.

Mike closed his eyes and nodded. Knowing his partner as well as he did, he knew this was not going to be easy for either of them, but he also knew that this pain was so unbearable that he couldn't allow this young man to shoulder the burden alone any longer.

Steve stared into his partner's eyes for several long seconds before he took a deep breath and started to talk. "You were right," he began with a quiet chuckle, "it was the kids."

For the next half hour, as Mike successfully struggled to stay awake and to focus, Steve filled him in on the events of the past couple of days – of working with the Oakland police department, coordinating resources, zeroing in on the two black teenagers that Mrs. Vandonigan had seen.

He told of bringing the two teens in, of 'Beenie' the informant and the revelation that the third teen was a 'rich white boy'; of the identification of 'that boy' as being the favoured son of a prominent Oakland family, and the decision to bring Gerry O'Brien in and to present their findings to the Oakland ADA in the hopes of getting a search warrant before word got out that the family was under suspicion.

Mike smiled under the oxygen mask, his eyes warm and impressed. "You guys did an amazing job," he said softly.

Steve smiled wistfully. "We had a lot of help." Then his face turned serious, disconsolate. He felt Mike's grip on his hand tighten. He took a deep breath and looked down. "We were waiting on the warrant. Norm suggested I give you a visit." He felt Mike twitch slightly and looked up into his startled eyes.

"You were here?"

Steve smiled slightly, and nodded with raised eyebrows. "Last night. You were in ICU on a ventilator. You scared the hell out of me."

Mike's grip tightened again and under the mask he smiled sheepishly. "Sorry…"

Steve's smile widened, then disappeared. "Jack Elliott had been working with us over in Oakland. He'd finally seemed to be putting Charlie's death in perspective, and he was doing a great job." He hesitated for a few seconds. "I got a call from Rudy while I was here with you. They were staked out in the kid's neighbourhood, waiting for the warrant. Jack was in the car with Norm and a couple of OPD guys. Norm said that Jack got quieter and quieter while they were waiting, then he muttered something about 'I can't let this happen' and got out of the car and went up the house.

"When I got the call, he had holed up in the house in the kid's bedroom, holding his gun to the kid's head and threatening to kill him." Steve felt Mike stiffen. "He asked for me."

Steve cleared his throat and took a deep breath. He stared down at the bed, his eyes unfocused. When he began to talk again, his voice was quiet, drained of emotion.

"When I got there, Jack had the kid in a choke hold, and he was pointing his .38 at the kid's head. His eyes were wild…he was out of control. It was like he decided he had nothing else to lose…. I sat on the floor near the door; I didn't want to get too close and spook him. I knew the only hope I had was to talk him down.

"Somehow, and I think it was Norm, Jack found out you were back in the hospital. I had deliberately not told anyone except Rudy and Norm. And it seemed to be the straw, I guess… Jack told the kid about you and me, about how the kid had not only killed Charlie, but he was killing you as well… I tried to tell him you were going to be alright, but he wouldn't listen…"

Steve stopped and looked up to meet Mike's worried stare. He smiled ever so slightly. "I took a page from your book," he said with quiet pride, "I started to talk to him about Charlie. About how Charlie loved him and was always there for him… But all Jack could talk about was how much of a disappointment he'd been to Charlie, about the gambling…about how after Charlie died, all he could do was go back to Vegas and get himself even more in debt…how he had betrayed Charlie even after he died…"

The silence lengthened, Steve staring unfocused, Mike's eyes fixed unblinkingly on his partner's face. Steve inhaled deeply, released the breath in a quiet sigh, and continued, his tone measured, his voice barely above a whisper.

"He'd given up, Mike, he couldn't see anything except his own failure, his own overwhelming guilt and grief. And I couldn't help him…" His breaths were now becoming ragged; his grip tightened on Mike's hand.

Neither of them moved for several long seconds, then Steve looked up, his eyes wide and tormented. "He did it, Mike. I couldn't stop him… He told me there was nothing he could do for Charlie when he was alive, but that now this was something he could do…" Mike held his breath.

Steve's face crumbled and the tears began to flow. "It all happened so fast…I didn't have time to react… He shot the kid in the head, right in front of me," he heard Mike gasp and he paused slightly and took a short, very audible breath, "and then he shot himself…" Steve began to shake, one hand over his mouth.

After a few seconds of stunned immobility, Mike took off his oxygen mask and struggled to push himself into a sitting position. Ignoring the blinding pain, the older man reached out and gingerly pulled his partner into his arms, cradling the young man's head against his chest. And, with eyes closed against the pain, both physical and emotional, Mike gently rocked them both, stroking Steve's back and wishing this was just a bad dream.

And all he could hear, over and over, was the heartbreaking refrain, "I couldn't stop him….I couldn't stop him…I couldn't stop him…"


	25. Chapter 25

Neither man had any idea how long they had remained in each other's embrace, but eventually Steve got himself under control, and with a final quick clench, he released his partner and Mike laid back against the pillows.

His eyes closed, his face etched in pain, Mike's breath was coming in shallow gasps. Suddenly more than a little concerned, Steve scrambled for the oxygen mask. "Here, let's get this back on," he said quickly as he slipped the elastic over Mike's head.

When Mike still didn't open his eyes, Steve crossed to the door. A quick glance towards the nurse's station told him that his colleagues were still in attendance, but Steve's attention was focused on the nurses. When one looked his way, he called quietly, "Could you ask Dr. Peters to come in, please?", closed the door and returned to the bed.

Mike still hadn't moved or opened his eyes, and a worried Steve sat on the side of the bed, stroking his partner's arm. The door slammed open and Peters strode towards the bed, removing the stethoscope from around his neck. He glanced at Steve, who scrambled to his feet. "What happened?"

Steve took a step back to allow Peters better access. "Ah, we, ah, we had a bit of a rough time," he stammered, reluctant to admit what really took place. But he saw in Peters' eyes that the young doctor had noted his tear-stained face and red eyes, had figured it out and had then allowed himself a tiny smile.

Peters glanced at the heart monitor then, as he put the eartips of the stethoscope in his ears, said encouragingly, "He'll be okay." He undid the buttons on Mike's pajama top and opened it, placing the chestpiece on the middle of the ribcage on the left side. Peters listened for several seconds, then moved the chestpiece closer to the sternum near the mid-line, and then once more a little higher.

Satisfied, Peters straightened up, removed a blood-pressure cuff from his pocket and, sliding Mike's left sleeve up, strapped on the cuff and inflated it.

Steve didn't take his eyes from his partner's face, still concerned that the older man was showing no signs of consciousness. Abstractedly, he reached out, laid a hand on Mike's leg and squeezed.

Peters released the air pressure on the cuff, watching the readings. With an affirming nod, he unstrapped the cuff and stuffed it back in his pocket then took off the stethoscope and draped it over his neck. Turning to Steve, he smiled. "He's fine. I think he's just exhausted and in pain. Don't forget, his lung and the muscles in his chest are still healing."

As if on cue, Mike gasped audibly and opened his eyes, looking from Peters to Steve and smiling self-consciously. He reached out for Steve's hand and grabbed it as best he could. "Sorry about that, the pain was just too intense, I couldn't move," he said quietly and carefully.

With an accusatory but humour-laced sigh, Peters shook his head. "You are going to send me to an early grave," he chuckled. He smiled at Steve. "I'll leave you two alone." At the door he turned back. "Are you guys hungry? I know of a bunch of cops who are standing around doing nothing right now – I'm sure you could convince one of them to make a food run for you."

Steve glanced at Mike, raising his eyebrows. Mike looked back. "I could eat."

Steve looked at Peters. "We'll let them know. Thanks."

With a grin and a nod, Peters left the room. Steve turned slowly back to his partner, his own smile fading as the reality of their situation returned to his thoughts. He crossed to the chair and sat heavily. "What are we gonna do, Mike?" he asked joylessly.

Mike stared solemnly at his young friend for several long seconds. He thought about saying, 'I don't know', but changed his mind. He knew Steve was looking to him right now for reassurance and wisdom, and he had none to give.

Mike slipped the oxygen mask off and took a tentative deep breath. "I wish I knew, buddy boy, I wish I knew. But I'm gonna try and get better so I can get the hell out of here – and you, you're gonna have to start believing that there was nothing more you could have done this morning. You did the best you could, better than the best. You were there for your friend Jack when he needed you the most, and there's a lot to be said for that."

Steve started to pull away, shaking his head in denial. Mike grabbed his hand and held him still. "This is not going to go away overnight, we both know that. But you have nothing to beat yourself up over this. Jack's decision was made a long time ago, maybe even from the second Charlie died; nothing you could have done or said would have changed his mind."

Mike paused, wincing. Talking for so long was painful and draining, but he wasn't about to stop. "What everyone has to do now is make absolutely sure that this kid that Jack killed actually was one of the shooters. That's the best thing we can do for Jack, and Charlie, and Derek and Allan. Right?"

When Steve didn't look at him right away, Mike shook his hand. "Right?" he repeated, more forcefully.

Reluctantly Steve faced him and with a slight nod whispered, "Right." They sat in companionable silence for a several minutes, Steve trying to quell the voices in his mind, Mike allowing the ache in his chest to subside.

Another shake of Mike's hand brought Steve's head up. Mike was looking at him with a slight smile. "I don't know about you but I'm hungry. Let's take advantage of our friends and send someone out to get us some dinner, because I am not eating hospital food. What do you say?"

Steve sat silently at first, unmoving, his eyes dark and troubled. Then he smiled slightly and his eyes lit up a bit. "What do you want?"

# # # # #

Mike woke up with a start and instantly regretted it as a stabbing pain on the left side of his chest brought him up short. His yelp of pain woke the occupant of the cot a few feet away, and Steve's head came up quickly. Though it was still dark outside and the overhead lights were off, he could see Mike in the glow of the heart monitor.

"You okay?"

"Yeah," Mike hissed through clenched teeth, trying to relax. "I will be so glad when this is all over."

Steve sat up and swung his feet to the floor. "What woke you up so fast?"

Mike looked over at him. "What day is it?"

"What?"

"What day is it?" Mike asked again, impatiently.

Steve thought for a bit, perplexed, then looked at his watch. "Sunday."

Mike sighed. "Great. Didn't miss it."

The perplexed look didn't go away. "Didn't miss what…? Oh, right, Jeannie." Steve's look turned to one of skepticism. "I somehow don't think Peters is going to let you out of here just to answer a phone call. He said you weren't being released until at least tomorrow."

Mike slumped, momentarily defeated. "You're probably right."

"I know I'm right." They both thought for a minute, then Steve said simply, "Well, the only thing we can do is, I go to your place and take the call and tell Jeannie you're in an emergency meeting with the mayor and the chief and you couldn't get out of it."

Mike nodded, eyebrows raised. "That could work."

"Good. Go back to sleep," Steve said through a yawn as he laid back down on the cot.

# # # # #

"Hello…Yes, I will…. Hello? Hey, Jeannie! Hi, yeah, Mike's not here tonight. We're at a really important point in the investigation of that shooting a couple of weeks ago? Yeah, that one. Well, Mike had to go to an emergency meeting tonight with the mayor, the chief and a bunch of others…. Yeah, he's the lucky one… Right…So, where are you? France?!"

Steve relaxed; Jeannie bought the story without much cross-examination. Now he could concentrate on the conversation.

They talked for almost three quarters of an hour, her vibrant young voice and contagious enthusiasm going a long way in starting to heal his wounded soul. When he finally hung up, sitting in the Stone kitchen, he was once more in awe of how this small family had come to mean so much to him. He had no idea if he could live without them.

# # # # #

It was almost 9:30 when Steve walked into the hospital room. He was pleasantly surprised to see Mike, glasses on, reading a newspaper. The older man turned to him anxiously, putting the paper down.

"So, did she believe you?" he asked without preamble.

Steve feigned annoyance as he took off his jacket, tossed it on the cot, and sat in the chair. "What, you doubt my expertise?"

"In lying to women? Why would I? I've seen you in action," Mike chuckled, making Steve smile. The banter felt good to them both; it seemed so long since they'd had that opportunity.

"Hook, line and sinker."

"Well done, my boy, well done. So, what did you talk about?"

Steve raised his eyebrows and smiled slyly as he reached for his jacket and pulled his police issue notebook out of a pocket. As he settled back in the chair and crossed his legs, he flipped it open.

"You took notes?" Mike asked incredulously.

"I knew you'd want all the details and I didn't want to miss a thing." He looked up at his partner and smiled like the Cheshire cat. "She's great, by the way, and having a wonderful time. She's in France right now…"

With his own contented grin, Mike settled back against the pillows, listening to the sound of his best friend's voice, hearing about the adventures of his beloved daughter. The days ahead would be filled with more pain and grief, he knew, but for now, in this little fragile bubble of time, he could relax and enjoy the togetherness.


	26. Chapter 26

Steve woke early on his second morning sleeping on the cot in the hospital room. He glanced over at the bed, pleased to see Mike was still asleep then silently slipped on his shirt, pants and shoes and left the room.

He was surprised to see Norm Haseejian sitting on a chair outside the door, arms folded, head down, gently snoring. He shook the sleeping detective's shoulder and, with a snort, Haseejian's head came up quickly.

"Norm, what are you doing here?" Steve asked, keeping his voice low.

Haseejian looked around as if he was trying to get his bearings. "Oh, ah," he cleared his throat, "we wanted to make sure you guys weren't disturbed."

"Disturbed? By what?"

Haseejian looked around again, this time with more chagrin than confusion.

"Norm, what's going on?"

"Look," Haseejian grabbed Steve's sleeve and tugged him closer, whispering, "some things have happened in the past 24 hours we haven't told you about." He sighed. "Do you have time to talk?"

Steve pulled away slightly, brow furrowed in concern. "Mike's still asleep. I was just on my way to the cafeteria to get some coffee. Let's go."

# # # # #

The two men were on either side of the small table, hands around their warm mugs.

"They took the place apart, Steve. Everything – the house, outbuildings, cars, the yard itself. Nothing. No M29's. There were other guns, of course, but they were all checked out; the family has all the paperwork. But no sign whatsoever of the .44's and no indication that there were ever any .44's in the house."

"But there's the still the I.D.'s from the gunshop staff, right?"

"The Annenberg's mouthpiece'll fight it, you know that. Now that they can't do a line-up, he'll say that identifying the kid from a high school yearbook photo ain't kosher and won't hold up in court. And he'll get away with it, you know that too."

"So, what do we do now?"

"Well, _you,_" Haseejian said pointedly, "aren't doing anything. Hell, even SFPD can't do much; this is still very much Oakland's ballgame." He leaned back and glanced around the still almost empty cafeteria.

Steve had the nagging suspicion his colleague wasn't coming completely clean. He continued to stare then leaned forward even more. "What is it, Norm?"

"What? What do you mean?"

"Come on, I know you're holding something back. Now what is it?"

"Well, you're gonna find out anyway at some point," he sighed and leaned over the table. "The Annenberg's are coming out with all guns blazing, so to speak. They've issued a statement that not only did Jack Elliott deliberately assassinate their 'innocent' son…but that you condoned and assisted him in doing so."

Steve froze, not sure he had heard correctly. He sat back slightly and shook his head. "What?"

"Nobody believes that," Norm continued quickly. "Gerry says it's the only weapon in their arsenal right now, so they have to use it." A quick sigh. "Unfortunately, the papers are running with it today, even though they know it's not true, it _is_ news and they have to run with it."

"I can't let Mike see that," Steve said quietly, almost to himself. "Not now. He doesn't need anything else on his mind right now."

Haseejian put a hand on Steve's forearm. "Look, you let us handle everything out here. A lot of our guys are still over in Oakland helping them out, and Gerry and their ADA, what's his name? Cavallero. They're working on the legal stuff. There's no need for you to get involved, believe me. I probably shouldn't have even told you…"

"I'm glad you did. I'd rather hear it from a friend." Steve smiled sadly at his colleague, then dropped his head into his hand and ran his fingers through his hair. "This just gets worse and worse, doesn't it?"

"Look,' Haseejian said forcefully, "you take care of yourself and Mike – get him home and healthy. Everyone wants you both back at work, the place ain't the same withoutcha," he smiled wryly.

Steve nodded, touched, then cleared his throat and looked down at the table. "Norm, I've been almost afraid to ask anybody but… what's happening with Jack? I mean, funeral arrangements and all that."

Haseejian leaned back, slumping in the chair, and sighed gloomily. "Well, the department was put in a tough spot, of course, and the brass have decided that they can't sanction an official funeral. His body has been released to his family. I think they're going to bury him on Thursday at Holy Cross, near Charlie. I'm not sure about the details, but I can find out for you, if you want."

Steve nodded, looking at the coffee cup he was turning slowly in his hands.

# # # # #

Steve returned to the hospital room with two cups of coffee in hand, pleased to see Mike awake and alert. The older man pushed himself to a sitting position as Steve crossed to the bed, and smiled warmly. "Good morning. I was wondering where you disappeared to."

"Just getting us some 'start-up juice'," Steve smiled back as he handed over a cup. "You're looking good and rested."

Mike nodded as he accepted the cup. "Peters was just in here. They're letting me out this morning." He took a sip of coffee, then his brow furrowed. "Why is it that he seems to be the only doctor I see when I'm in here?"

Steve turned away quickly, trying to suppress a smile as he pulled the chair closer and sat down. "I have no idea," he said, successfully keeping the amusement out of his voice. "You should ask him."

# # # # #

Thursday morning had dawned grey, cold and rainy. The tan LTD drove through the iron gates of Holy Cross cemetery behind the hearse, two limos and a few other cars, and pulled to a stop alongside the path. A short ways off, through the rain on the car windows, they could see the priest and cemetery attendants waiting amongst a few folding chairs and the casket lowering device.

Steve glanced across the front seat. "You're staying in the car, right?" It was a statement, not a question.

Mike nodded reluctantly. Steve had been worried that standing out in the cold rain wouldn't do his partner's still fragile health any good; Mike had grudgingly agreed.

Steve got out of the car, doing up his black raincoat and turning his collar up. He joined the others at the back of the hearse, whose rear door had been opened. Slipping on a pair of black gloves, he helped slide the coffin out of the hearse.

Mike watched as the eight pallbearers, most of whom he knew as fellow officers, the majority of them partners of those who had been shot in the ambush, slowly carried the shiny mahogany casket to the plot, setting it gently on the lowering device.

Jack Elliott's parents were huddled, numb and bereft, with their daughter and remaining son, in the first row of chairs. Maureen and Karen Bidwell sat behind the Elliott family. Steve stood with his colleagues, most of them from Homicide and Robbery, all of them bareheaded in the downpour.

The service was mercifully short. The Elliott family stood, each of them taking the time to touch the casket and lay a red rose on its top. A few others, like Maureen Bidwell and her daughter, did the same. Everyone stayed as the casket was lowered into the ground.

People began to drift away. Mike watched as Steve, his head lowered and hands folded loosely in front, crossed slowly to the open grave and stood stiffly, staring down at the casket.

Mike, his heart breaking for his young friend, felt hot tears sting his cheeks, and reached up with a trembling hand to wipe them away.

# # # # #

The drive home from the cemetery was made in silence, each man wrapped in his own thoughts. They climbed the steps slowly, the rain having let up slightly, and shrugged off their wet coats. Steve mounted the stairs to the second floor.

Mike hung up their wet coats, retrieving something from the pocket of his before he did so. He crossed into the kitchen, and began to fill the percolator with water.

Several minutes later, Steve entered the kitchen, drying his hair with a towel. Arms folded, Mike was leaning against the counter. The percolator was beginning to brew; cups, milk, coffee and spoons stood at the ready.

Steve glanced at his partner as he entered the room and stopped short, puzzled by Mike's serious, almost angry demeanor. He knew they were both still unsettled by the events of the day, but this seemed to go beyond that.

"What?" he asked, taken aback.

Mike looked at the table and Steve followed his gaze. A newspaper lay there, folded open at a specific article. Steve didn't have to read it to know what it said: "Second SFPD cop implicated in Annenberg murder".

He looked up to meet Mike's enraged stare.

"When were you going to tell me?"


	27. Chapter 27

Seeing the newspaper laying open on the table, Steve froze in mid-motion, still holding the towel he was drying his hair with on top of his head. He turned slowly to face his partner.

Mike continued to lean against the counter, his relaxed stance belying the anger in his eyes. "Well?"

Taking a quick short inhale, Steve said slowly, "I was going to tell you –"

"Oh yeah, when?" Mike cut him off impatiently. "Before or after you were charged?" he snarled sarcastically.

Steve shook his head quickly in frustration, feeling his own anger rising.

"Mike, you know that's not going to happen." He pointed at the paper. "Do you think that's really true?"

"Of course not!" Mike snapped back then hesitated, catching his breath with a little gasp. Involuntarily, his right arm wrapped around his chest and he closed his eyes and grimaced slightly.

Steve watched his partner intently, but didn't move any nearer. When Mike opened his eyes, Steve said dryly, "If we're going to continue to argue, may I suggest we sit down someplace?" They eyed each other testily, until finally a small tentative smile appeared on Steve's lips.

The fire in Mike's eyes disappeared first then very slowly the corners of his mouth turned up slightly. "I'm not going anywhere," he said firmly as he folded up and sat on the floor, leaning against a cupboard.

"Have it your way," Steve countered, sitting where he was in the middle of the kitchen floor. He held the towel in his lap and stared unflinchingly at the older man.

The silence lengthened. Uncharacteristically, it was Mike who looked away first, glancing down at his hands and then back up. His hard stare had softened. "You were going to tell me, weren't you?" he asked quietly.

Smiling slightly, Steve nodded. "Yes, of course," he said earnestly. "It's just…" His voice trailed off and he looked away, took a deep breath and then looked back at his partner.

"Mike, for the past two and a half weeks, I have spent more time than I ever want to do again sitting beside your hospital bed hoping against hope that it wasn't going to be the last time I'd see you alive."

He saw Mike take a deep, unsteady breath and his eyes widen.

"And until you're healthy again, I am not doing anything that could jeopardize that. And that includes not letting you find out about things that you or I have no control over and can only do more harm than good." He smiled slyly. "Whether you like it or not, Mike, I'm the one in charge right now. I get to make the decisions for both of us."

Steve could see the older man struggling to retain his composure; he knew he had won and allowed himself a forgiving smile. "And I think the coffee's ready," he continued, getting to his feet and crossing to the counter next to Mike.

He glanced down as he pulled the mugs closer and unplugged the percolator. He could see Mike staring straight ahead and knew he was trying to pull his scattered equanimity back together. Steve smiled to himself; after all these years together he knew just what buttons to push.

The coffee ready, Steve turned away from the counter and sat on the floor beside his partner. "Here," he said, holding out a cup.

Not trusting himself to meet Steve's eyes, Mike reached out and took the cup with his right hand, continuing to stare straight ahead. "Thanks," he said quietly, taking a quick sip, then lowering the cup into his lap.

Taking his own sip, Steve looked at Mike from the corner of his eye and smiled. "Where did you get the newspaper?" he asked suddenly and saw Mike start slightly, guiltily.

Clearing his throat, Mike turned his head. "Well, you've been with me almost constantly for the past few days. You're the hotshot detective, you figure it out." With a smug smile, he took another sip of coffee.

Taking the bait, Steve laid the back of his head against the cupboard and frowned. "All right."

After a few long silent seconds, Mike looked at him again. "Give up?"

Steve's glance was laced with annoyance. "Not yet."

Mike shook his head, chuckling. "You'll never get it." Mike took a sip of coffee then turned to his partner once more. "When you finally give up, there's something I want to talk to you about."

"You can be really irritating, you know that, right?" Steve sighed. "I haven't given up, but what do you want to talk about."

It was Mike's turn to lay the back of his head against the cupboard. He cleared his throat again and began softly. "I know these last couple of weeks haven't been easy for either of us, and I think it's about time you and I part company for a little while."

Alarmed, Steve sat up straighter, his eyes boring into his partner's face. "What are you talking about?"

Mike chuckled. "That's not what I mean. Relax. I just mean, I'm okay to spent a night on my own, and you're a young man who … has needs, as they say," he said archly, grinning slightly. "What I'm trying to say is, take the night off, go out, have some fun, preferably with a female companion… Need I be more specific?"

By now Steve had relaxed and leaned back, his own grin building. "No, no, no," he said quickly, "I get where you're going. I just need time to, ah, process this information."

They both sat staring straight ahead, both smiling. Mike eventually looked over. "You do have someone you can –?"

"Yes, yes," Steve cut him off with a laugh, "I'm just trying to figure out which one…"

"Which one?" Mike shook his head in mock disgust. "You young people these days…"

Steve chuckled. "Okay, okay, I know who I'm gonna call, but you're cramping my style here, Mike –"

"You have keys," Mike said simply, cutting him off.

"What?"

"You have keys," Mike said again, more emphatically. At Steve's blank stare, he sighed. "You're really not firing on all cylinders today, are you?"

"What?" Steve asked with a laugh and a grin.

Mike sighed dramatically. "I have keys to your house, you have…" He let the rest of the sentence hang.

Suddenly Steve's eyes lit up and he grinned slowly, nodding. "I have keys to your house."

Mike grinned and nodded back. "Just change the sheets when you're done."

With a happy chuckle and tossing the towel over his shoulder, Steve got to his feet, put his coffee cup on the counter then reached down to help Mike stand. "You sure you're gonna be okay on your own tonight?"

Mike smiled affectionately. "Absolutely. And I will feel much happier knowing you're not sitting around here baby-sitting."

Steve slapped him on the shoulder. "I'm gonna make a phone call."

# # # # #

"This is nice," Emily said softly, reaching across the table and putting her hand over Steve's. "I hadn't seen you in such a long time, I was really getting worried."

Steve shook his head. "Well, it's been a hell of a couple of weeks, but things are getting better…"

"Steve, I did see that article… it's not true, is it?"

"Nope, not a word of it," he said quietly and watched as the gorgeous blond across the table smiled warmly.

"I didn't think so. We have so much trouble with reporters sometimes too. What's that Lincoln quote? At least, I think its Lincoln…something about never believing everything you read…"

"That's a fact."

"So," she said, taking a sip of wine, "how did you manage to get away tonight?"

Steve chuckled and leaned back, picking up his own glass. "It was my partner's idea actually," he said with a reflective smile. "He thought I needed the change of scene."

"He was one of the cops who were shot, wasn't he?" Emily asked gently.

"Yeah, yeah," Steve said quietly, swirling the wine in his glass. "I almost lost him twice in the past couple of weeks." He looked up and smiled. "But he's great now, he's gonna be fine."

"Good. I'm glad to hear that, I really am." She put down her wine glass and cleared her throat self-consciously. Steve looked up at her. "So…" she began slowly, "he's staying at your place … I'm assuming…" she gestured vaguely, hoping he would catch her drift.

His confused look changed slowly into one of pleasure as he put his own glass down on the table and leaned towards her. Sliding his left hand out of his jacket pocket, staring into her eyes, he held up a ring of keys and dangled them before her face.

"He has a house too," he said softly and suggestively with a come-hither smile.

# # # # #

Steve woke up slowly, shivering under the light touch of Emily's fingertips over his chest. Without opening his eyes, he reached out to pull her close and felt her head against his shoulder. He kissed the top of her head.

"What time is it?" he asked softly, and felt her reach across him to pick up his watch from the night table.

"6:30."

"What time do you have to be at work?"

She put the watch back down and laid her hand on his stomach. "I can go in later – I don't have a deposition until 11."

"Good," he sighed, pulling her closer.

After several quiet minutes, Emily said softly, "I have an idea. Why don't we go pick up a good big breakfast somewhere and bring it over to your partner."

Steve pulled away slightly to look at her. "You really want to meet him, don't you?"

She smiled. "Yes, I do," she said simply.

"Why?"

"For a lot of reasons. For one, I want to thank him for providing us with the wherewithal for this…" she gestured around the bedroom, "and your night off last night."

Steve chuckled and pulled her closer.

"And," she began quietly and carefully, "I want to meet the man you love so much." When he pulled back again to stare at her questioningly, she slapped him lightly on the stomach. "Don't deny it. I can see it in your eyes and hear it in your words when you talk about him." She smiled knowingly at him.

Steve wriggled uncomfortably under her touch, and began to sit up. She pulled him back down.

"Don't be embarrassed about it, Steve, I think it's wonderful. There haven't been many times in my life when I've had the opportunity to witness pure, unbiased love. I find it wonderfully refreshing, and I'm intrigued."

Steve's uncomfortable look turned warm and sympathetic. "You really want to meet him?"

She nodded, grinning.

He nodded back. "All right, let's do it." He tossed the covers back, and the two naked lovers scrambled for their clothes.

# # # # #

Mike became aware of someone sitting on the edge of the bed, and he opened his eyes slowly, only somewhat surprised to see his partner.

Sunshine was peaking around the edges of the curtains so he knew the sun was up.

"Good morning," Steve said with uncommon enthusiasm. "How did you sleep?"

Mike cleared his throat and carefully pushed himself up. "Fine, good." He shook his head slightly, trying to wake up. "Are you just getting home?" he asked, recognizing Steve's wardrobe from the evening before.

Steve grinned and raised his eyebrows. "The night's not over yet."

Confused, and wary, Mike asked, "What do you mean?"

"I mean," Steve began, pulling the covers off the older man, then getting up and walking to the dresser, "Emily and our breakfast are both waiting for you downstairs."

"What?" Mike hadn't moved. Steve turned from the bureau and tossed a pair of boxer shorts in his direction.

"Get dressed. There's a beautiful woman and an amazing breakfast waiting for you downstairs." Steve crossed to the armchair, picked up Mike's pants and shirt and brought them over to the bed.

"Uhm, what?" Mike repeated as he sat up straighter and swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

Steve stood in the centre of the room, looking mystified. He threw his hands up in disbelief. "I know. I can't figure it out either, but for some reason, my date Emily really wants to meet you." He crossed to the door and turned back. "So, chop-chop, get downstairs as soon as you can."

Steve left the room. Stunned, Mike sat on the side of the bed, trying to figure out what was going on. With a bemused sigh, he stood up, picked up his clothes and crossed to the bathroom.


	28. Chapter 28

Still dressed in his blue checked shirt and khaki pants, Mike leaned back against the pillows and sighed wearily. Steve sat on the edge of the bed.

"You sure you're okay?"

Mike nodded, "Yeah, yeah, I'm just tired, that's all."

Steve frowned but elected to keep his concern to himself for now. He grinned as he stood and pulled the blanket up. "You charmed her socks off, you know that, right?" Mike smiled, keeping his eyes closed. "I'm gonna have to keep an eye on you," Steve chuckled and was rewarded when Mike did the same.

The older man opened his eyes. "She's a keeper, buddy boy. Gorgeous _and_ smart. How did you get so lucky?"

"What lucky? Class attracts class," Steve laughed. He sat on the side of the bed again, and his smile disappeared. "You're sure you're okay?"

Mike looked at him gratefully, understanding the concern. He took a deep, audible breath. "See, no coughing, no wheezing. I'm fine, really. I'm just tired. I was told to expect that, because of the pneumonia."

Steve nodded. "I'll be so happy when you're better," he said quietly.

Mike smiled affectionately. "You and me both. Look, take your lovely lady home so she can go to work, and you get your butt into the office for that meeting you have. I'm fine, I just want to sleep, okay?"

Laying a hand on Mike's arm, Steve looked deep into his eyes and nodded. "I'll see you later," he said fondly, stood up and crossed to the door, turning back. "There's a Giants-Dodgers game tonight; we can listen to it while we have dinner. Anything special?"

Mike grinned. "Surprise me."

# # # # #

As the Porsche pulled away from the curb, Emily looked over at the driver. "Thanks again for that. I'm really glad I finally got to meet the mysterious Mike Stone," she said with a slight giggle.

Steve snorted, "What do you mean 'mysterious'?"

"Well, you talked about him all the time, whether you realized it or not, but never once offered to introduce me to him. I was beginning to think he was some figment of your imagination," she teased.

"Really?" asked Steve puzzled, unaware he had been so verbal about his relationship with his partner.

Emily smiled and reached out to put a hand on his thigh, momentarily startling him. "Don't be embarrassed. Like I said before, I think it's terrific. And now that I've seen you two together, I understand it completely."

Uncomfortable, Steve continued to stare out the windshield, trying to concentrate on his driving.

Noticing how ill at ease she was making him, Emily took her hand off his leg and looked away. "You do know how much _he_ loves _you_, don't you? It's so obvious; the way he looks at you, the way he talks to you."

As Steve's hands fidgeted on the steering wheel, Emily looked out the side window and smiled warmly.

# # # # #

"Steve, you know Don Baker, from the PBA? And this is Eric Karlson, from the D.A.'s office; he working with Gerry."

Steve shook hands with the two men, then nodded at O'Brien and took a seat as Rudy Olsen crossed around his desk to sit.

"So, gentlemen, where do we stand right now?" Olsen looked at O'Brien.

"Well, nothing much has changed in the past couple of days. The Annenbergs are still pressuring the Oakland PD to charge you with either manslaughter, which is a stretch of course, or more likely conspiracy to commit murder."

There were snorts all around, which Steve found comforting. Before he could say anything, Olsen spoke up. "They can't possibly think they have a snowball's chance in hell with that, do they?" he asked derisively.

"Well, no," O'Brien said calmly, "but we're talking about a very powerful family with an unlimited financial resource. They are not going to stop until they get some kind of satisfaction, whether it's punitive or financial."

"Financial?" Steve and Olsen blurted out simultaneously.

O'Brien shifted uncomfortably. "If the Annenbergs can't get charges pressed against you, then the chances are they will go after you financially, sue you in civil court for 'wrongful death'." He looked at Steve uneasily, knowing that the young officer had once before been faced with a similar situation. He saw Steve sigh dishearteningly and drop his head. He felt Olsen's eyes boring into him.

"Well," Olsen began strongly, wrestling the attention away from the ADA, "its not gonna get that far. Now we've got an entire team over there in Oakland helping out their guys in trying to find something, anything concrete that will connect that little bastard to the shooting.

And we've got some irons in the fire that I'm not at liberty to talk about right now," he finished quietly, ignoring the others questioning stares.

"My suggestion, and please tell me if I'm on the right track with this, Gerry, is we just keep mum about this whole thing right now. Nobody talks to the press. Nobody says anything. We let the Annenbergs and their mouthpiece do all the talking right now. Right?"

O'Brien nodded. "Absolutely right, Rudy. Morris Greenspan is very adept at manipulating the press and public opinion, there's no way we can counter that right now as we have no facts to back us up." He glanced at Steve. "It doesn't matter that we know everything they are saying is bullshit, we have to take the high ground right now and maintain our silence. In this case, silence does not mean weakness." He took a deep breath and looked at Olsen. "Right now we have time on our side but that is not going to last. I'd say we have only about a week, at the outside, until he demands, and will probably get, a sanction to move ahead with either charges or the civil suit.

"This is a very serious and dangerous situation for the Oakland mayor – there is an election coming up. He's not going allow this to go on forever and jeopardize his chances for re-election. He's going to apply political pressure."

Olsen nodded. "Steve," he said, looking at his inspector, "I want you to lie low for the next few days, let us do all the work, okay? Stay home, keep Mike company, and try to take your mind off all of this. Let us do the worrying, okay?" he said with a smile, trying to keep the edge out of his voice.

Steve nodded reluctantly, frustrated that he was not going to be allowed to be more active in his own defense, but realizing that Olsen was right.

"How is Mike, by the way?" the captain asked, desperately wanting to change the subject.

Steve looked up and smiled. "The pneumonia took a lot out of him and he's pretty exhausted, but he's getting better all the time. I'm gonna make sure he doesn't leave the house for the next few days so that'll help. You should come by and see him, he'd like that."

Olsen's smile was genuine. "That's wonderful to hear and yes, tell him I will drop by soon, I promise."

# # # # #

Steve opened the front door, balancing the large paper bag on his knee as he pulled his key from the lock and stepped over the threshold. He glanced around the living room but didn't see Mike. He quietly closed the door and walked to the kitchen, leaving the bag on the counter then crossing back out and up the stairs.

With a slight amount of unease, he pushed the bedroom door open. Mike, still dressed, was lying on top of the covers, glasses on, reading a book. Steve let out a quiet relieved sigh and smiled as Mike turned towards the door, looking at him over the glasses.

"Hi," said Mike casually, lowering the book and taking off his glasses. "You were gone a long time."

"Yeah, there was a lot going on and then I had to wait for our food," he said vaguely as he crossed to the bed. "How are you doing?"

"Great, great. I slept most of the day." Mike swung his legs over the edge of the bed. "Food, you said?" he grinned, getting slowly to his feet. He could tell from his friend's demeanour that something was bothering him but decided to wait a bit before confronting him on it. "I'm starving. What did you bring us?"

"I went to Mama's," Steve said with a broad smile.

"Oooo, Italian, great." Mike carefully clapped his hands as they walked to the door.

# # # # #

"You want a little glass of red wine? I think you're allowed," Steve called from the kitchen.

Mike was in the living room, trying to locate KFSO on the radio. "Sure!" he yelled back, then stopped turning the dial when he heard the familiar voice of Al Michaels. "Game's starting!"

Steve entered with two plates of lasagna and salad, putting them on the coffee table then retreating back into the kitchen for the glasses of wine.

Mike sat on the couch in front of the coffee table, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. "This looks great," he said enthusiastically as he picked up the cutlery.

Steve smiled to himself as he sat in the armchair, relieved to see his partner had gotten his appetite back, a very good sign.

"So," Mike said casually, looking at his plate, "when are you seeing Emily again?"

Steve almost choked on his first mouthful of lasagna. "What?" he gasped, reaching for his wine glass and taking a sip.

Mike looked at him sideways, grinning slightly as he cut a piece of lasagna. "Emily? Remember? That stunning beauty that was all over you this morning?"

"Yeah," Steve nodded with a wary smile and a chuckle, "I remember. And what business is it of yours, to be perfectly honest?" His tone was playful.

"Absolutely none. You know I just have your best interests at heart."

Steve turned to look at the older man, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Well, Michael Stone, I believe you're smitten with her."

"Smitten?" Mike echoed bemusedly. "That's my generation's word, not yours. Smitten…" He snorted.

"Am I wrong?"

Mike looked at him balefully. "Thin ice, my boy, thin ice," he threatened, wagging a finger.

Steve sat back with a laugh and took another sip of wine. "I could ask her what her mother looks like."

Mike made a playful lunge at him, but pulled himself up short, wincing.

"Ah, shit," he said through clenched teeth, "I keep forgetting I can't do that." When Steve started to get up, Mike waved him back. "I'm okay, I just need a second."

Aware that Steve was watching him intently, Mike decided to lighten the mood. He speared another piece of lasagna with his fork and with a sly sideways glance said innocently, "So, did you ever figure out where I got the newspaper from?"

Steve smiled and shook his head. "Don't change the subject."

"Yeah, that's what I thought," Mike said teasingly, "you gave up and you were too embarrassed to tell me." He popped the piece of lasagna into his mouth.

"I didn't give up, I just forgot about it."

"Yeah, a woman'll do that to you," Mike said around the lasagna.

Steve shot him an exasperated glance. "You think I can't figure it out."

"I _know_ you can't figure it out, and you're just too embarrassed to admit it."

"Give me to the end of the ballgame – then I'll tell you where you got it. Deal?"

"Tonight's ballgame?" Mike asked pointedly.

"Ha ha, very funny. Of course tonight's ballgame."

"Deal," Mike agreed smugly, tucking back into his lasagna.

# # # # #

Mike was asleep on the couch by the middle of the sixth inning. Steve didn't have the heart to wake him and, as he sat in the armchair listening to the game and Mike's gentle snoring, he tried to solve the riddle of the newspaper.

With everything going on in their lives right now, this little respite from reality was just the solace they both needed. Emily was right, he had to agree; he did know how much he was loved, and the truth in that simple fact was the unshakable foundation of his very existence.


	29. Chapter 29

After the last out, Steve got up and crossed to the radio. The instant he snapped it off, Mike woke with a start, briefly disoriented. His right hand went to the left side of his chest and he took a short sharp breath then shook himself awake. He looked up at Steve a little sheepishly. "I fell asleep."

Steve chuckled. "You think? Are you okay?"

Mike nodded, sitting up, his right hand still bracing his chest. "Yeah, that always happens when I wake up suddenly. You think I'd be used to it by now." He snickered dryly. "So, did we win?"

"'Fraid not, five to four."

"Ah, damn it. They swept the last series. What's happened since then?" he asked rhetorically. "Well, I better haul myself upstairs and go to bed," he grinned and got slowly to his feet.

"Not so fast."

"What?"

Steve sat in the armchair and folded his arms. "There's the little matter of the newspaper."

"Ah, yeah, sorry, I almost forgot." Mike sat back down on the couch, leaning forward with elbows on knees in gleeful anticipation. "Figured it out, did ya?"

Steve's grin was smug. "I think I did," he announced with a verbal flourish.

"All right, impress me." Mike clapped his hands once.

"One of the guys slipped it to you at the funeral, when you were alone in the car."

Mike's grin got wider and he sat back, nodding his head appreciatively. "No," he said as his nod turned into a shake. "Good try, but no." He stood up and started for the stairs.

Steve leaned forward sharply. "Wait, you're not going to tell me?"

Mike turned back at the first step. "No," he said simply and began to climb.

"Wait a minute, you said you'd tell me after the ballgame."

Mike stopped again. "No, if you remember correctly, you said _you'd_ tell _me_ at the end of the game, but at no time did I say that I'd tell you."

Steve thought about it for a second. "Oh yeah, you're right. But you are going to tell me, right?"

Mike looked at him kindly. "No. Not right now, anyway." He started up the stairs once more. "This is becoming too much fun." And with a laugh, he disappeared into the bedroom.

Sitting back in the chair, Steve pounded the right arm with his fist in bemused frustration. "Damn."

# # # # #

When Steve opened his eyes the next morning, he could see sunlight peeking in around the living room curtains. He picked up his watch from the coffee table. 9:42.

He tossed the blanket off and sat up, running his hands over his face then through his tousled hair. He froze. Was that coffee he smelled? He got to his feet and crossed to the kitchen doorway.

Reading the morning paper in the light from the window, Mike, still in his pajamas under his dressing gown and glasses on, was sitting at the kitchen table, coffee cup in hand. He looked over his glasses towards the entrance.

"Good morning, sleepyhead. Grab yourself a cup." He nodded over his shoulder towards the percolator.

With a relieved smile, Steve snapped on the overhead light, walked to the counter and filled a mug. As he sat across from Mike at the table, the older man put the paper down and took off his glasses.

"How do you feel this morning?" Steve asked, sipping his coffee.

"Really good," Mike said with a grin. "You?"

Steve put his cup on the table and sat. "Good, good."

"You must be getting tired of sleeping on your couch," Mike said kindly. "Look, I think it's –"

Steve put a hand up. "Stop right there. You are _not_ going home, not yet." Mike opened his mouth to protest but Steve plowed on. "If I have to call Dr. Peters, I will. You haven't been out of the hospital a week yet, so no, you are not going home. End of discussion."

Mike had closed his mouth and waited for the younger man to finish talking. Now he said nothing, knowing he was not going to win the debate. With a scowl, he put on his glasses and picked up the paper. Steve chuckled as he got up and went to the counter to put some bread in the toaster.

# # # # #

Steve finished stacking the dirty dishes on the counter next to the sink.

"I'm gonna get changed and out go to buy the stuff for dinner. You need anything?"

"No, nothing, thanks." Mike hesitated briefly then seemed to make up his mind. "Steve, could you sit for a second?" he asked solemnly. The younger man eyed him uneasily but did so. Mike took a deep breath and met his eyes evenly. "Something was bothering you when you got home from the meeting yesterday, but I didn't want to ask you about it then. I'm asking now."

Steve sat back, almost relieved that it was only that, although he was reluctant to tell Mike about it. And he was also once more astonished that he could be read so easily by this most uncommon man.

He sighed and looked away momentarily. "It was a meeting with Rudy, Gerry and another lawyer, and my PBA rep. Basically, I was told that they haven't found anything yet to incriminate Annenberg, but there's a huge task force still working on it. And that Annenberg's mouthpiece is, you know, talking trash, threatening to charge me with manslaughter or conspiracy."

Steve could see Mike's temper rising, and he tried to find a way to quell it without lying to the man. "But they also told me there's not much chance of that, especially if the task force comes up with something – Rudy mentioned something about some 'irons in the fire' he couldn't talk about; he was kinda vague and I didn't push it."

Mike look unconvinced. "Well, we knew all that already; what made you so upset?"

Knowing he was caught out, Steve sighed and shook his head in resignation. "Gerry happened to mention that if they couldn't get criminal charges filed against me, then they'd probably sue me in civil court for 'wrongful death'."

Steve stared at his partner with a "There, it's on the table," expression. Mike didn't move at first, then his expression softened and he leaned back. "God damn it," he said quietly.

Steve chuckled mirthlessly. "So, not only did Jack kill himself in front of me, but I could stand to lose everything," he said with a heavy sigh, his voice shaking slightly.

"No, you won't," Mike said firmly. "I swear to God, if it's the last thing I ever do, you are not going to pay in any way for what Jack Elliott did."

Steve smiled warmly, reaching out to lay a hand on Mike's forearm. "I appreciate that, Mike, I really do, but any pressure you're going to put on anybody right now had better be over the phone, because I am not letting you out of the house," he said lightly, hoping to shake off the grim mood.

Mike stared at him sternly, then his features began to lighten and an affectionate smile curled the corners of his mouth. "You're taking the fun out of this, you know." They both smiled, but the reprieve didn't last long.

"We're gonna get through this, the two of us," Steve said decisively. "I'm not going to let that little punk Annenberg ruin both our lives." He got up. "What do you say, if you're feeling up to it, we go to a matinee this afternoon when I get back? Everybody keeps talking about 'Jaws'. Want to see it?"

Mike knew that Steve was trying to change topics and he appreciated the effort. "Sure, why not? It'll be good to get out of the house, even on your short leash," he grinned then pretended to duck Steve's playful swat.

# # # # #

In the pitch-dark of his living room, he sat curled up in the armchair, in a t-shirt and pajama bottoms, a blanket over his shoulders and a glass of scotch in his hands. He was trembling, his breaths shallow and shaky.

Since that eventful morning in Oakland, he had not had a full night's sleep. He had spent every night, since leaving the hospital with Mike, in the same chair, cradling the same glass, reliving the horrifying scene over and over again. Inevitably the tears would start and the trembling more pronounced, as would the struggle to remain unheard.

Mike was dealing with his own demons, Steve knew. His health was his primary worry, but Steve also knew Mike still had to deal with his reluctance to face the reality of his guilt. It was almost a month since the shooting and Mike had yet to step foot in the Bryant Street building or meet with any of the others who had survived the attack; huge bridges that would need to be crossed.

So Steve sat alone, unable and unwilling to reach out to the one person he knew undeniably could provide him the wisdom and guidance he needed. As the sun started to rise, he hid the glass under the chair, laid down on the couch, and waited till exhaustion overtook him.

# # # # #

Mike was descending the steep concrete steps slowly, holding his left arm against his side. He could use his forearm with no problem, but it still hurt like hell to raise his upper arm or pick up anything heavy.

Steve leaned across the front seat of the LTD, opened the passenger door and pushed so that Mike could catch it. Mike sat heavily and pulled the door closed then turned to Steve with a grin.

"So," the younger man smiled, "where is she now?"

"Portugal. In a city called Porto on the ocean. She says it's spectacular, she loves it." Mike took his police notebook out of his pocket and flipped it open, trying to ignore his partner's baffled stare. "What?" he asked in counterfeit irritation. "I never said it was a bad idea."

As a laughing Steve pulled away from the curb, Mike filled him in on his daughter's adventures from the past week. "Okay, so she and her girlfriends went through the northern part of Spain – let's see, San Sebastian, Pamplona, Burgos, Segovia…"

# # # # #

Steve opened the door to his apartment and entered, leaving it open for Mike, who was taking his time on the steps. Steve tossed his keys on the side table and crossed to the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of water.

Mike entered the apartment and closed the door, carefully sliding off his windbreaker and hanging it up. He glanced into the kitchen as he crossed to the couch and sat.

Steve came into the living room and moved to the TV. He was just about to turn it on when he heard Mike's voice, firm and even. "Take a seat."

Steve turned to his partner, startled to see the uncompromising stare.

Mike pointed at the armchair. "Sit down." The younger man crossed uneasily to the chair and sat, desperately trying to figure out what was going on.

Keeping his eyes on Steve, Mike reached over the right arm of the couch. When he straightened up, there was a half-empty bottle of scotch in his hand.

"Do you want to tell me what this is all about?"


	30. Chapter 30

Steve looked slowly from the bottle back to his partner, who sat patiently waiting for an explanation. He leaned forward, put his elbows on his knees, folded his hands and dropped his head, staring at the carpet, his mouth pressed against the back of his fingers.

Mike watched the young man draw in deep, shuddering breaths, but remaining otherwise immobile. He stared at the top of Steve's head for several long seconds, his anger subsiding somewhat into compassion. Leaning forward, he put the scotch bottle on the floor between his feet.

"You're having nightmares, right?" he asked softly. He watched Steve nod vaguely, as if unwilling to admit to that weakness. "You don't have to be embarrassed about it. Everyone gets nightmares about something." He touched the bottle. "But this, this isn't the solution, Steve, you know that."

Mike waited, but when there was still no response, he asked, "Why didn't you talk to me about it? You've always been able to talk to me about things before." He waited again, knowing what the answer was going to be but needing to hear it put into words.

Eventually Steve's gaze climbed slowly from the carpet to the blue eyes of his partner. There were another few seconds of silence before he said quietly, "You know why."

Mike nodded, a slight smile curling the corners of his mouth. "You were worried about me." At Steve's guilty nod, he continued, "I appreciate you thinking about me, about my health, but I need to know these things about you. This is you, this is your health, and it's just as important to me, do you understand that?" Mike picked up the bottle. "This is a poor substitute for me, don't you think?"

Behind his hands, Steve chuckled and a slight smile briefly appeared.

"Let's get rid of this, shall we?" Mike said as he stood and crossed to the kitchen, scotch bottle in hand. He went straight to the counter, took the top off the bottle and poured the contents into the sink. When it was empty, he turned to see Steve standing in the doorway. If the younger man was angry that the contents of the bottle had just disappeared down the drain, he showed no sign of it.

"There," said Mike, putting the now empty bottle on the counter, "now you only have me. Come on, we're gonna talk." He walked past the younger man back into the living room and sat in the armchair.

Shaking his head in reluctant compliance, Steve dragged himself back to the couch and sat heavily with a weary sigh.

"When did they start, the nightmares?"

"I had trouble sleeping when I was with you in the hospital, but they really started after I got home." Steve snorted and a mirthless smile briefly crossed his face. "The only night I haven't had one was the night I spent with Emily."

"Lucky Emily," Mike said lightly and they both chuckled. But the levity didn't last long. "What do you see?"

Steve stared unfocused into the middle distance, once again hiding behind his clasped hands. "The whole thing," he began softly, "from the moment I walk into the room, everything…until the second shot… I always wake up at the second shot…"

Mike nodded slowly. "Is it always a repeat of what actually happened, or is it different somehow…?" he asked gently, and Steve looked at him in surprise, brow furrowed.

"No, no, it's different… after the first shot, things seem to move in slow motion… and I, ah, I have time to reach out to Jack, to try to grab the gun from him… I'm reaching for him, my hand is just inches from the gun but I can't get to him in time, and he puts the gun under his chin and he pulls the trigger…" Steve was gasping slightly, shaking. He caught his breath and looked directly at his partner. "How did you know?"

Mike's tiny smile was melancholy, and he sat back in the armchair with a sad sigh. "I've never told you about the first suicide _I_ saw, have I?"

Frowning, Steve shook his head.

"It was during the battle for Iwo Jima – March of 1945. Everybody was having a hard time, it was one hell of a fight, and there had been a lot of casualties in our platoon. One of our guys, O'Connor, from Boston, he was having a tough time.

"He'd started out being one of the easy-going guys in our outfit, always quick with a joke or a good-natured insult, just a really nice guy. But then he started getting quieter and quieter. Not many of the others seemed to notice, there was just too much going on; the fighting was almost non-stop. But _I'd_ noticed; he was one of my closest friends."

Mike stopped briefly and took a deep breath. He was looking inward, remembering, reliving. Steve sat unmoving, his eyes not leaving his friends pensive face.

"One night we were bivouacked behind the front line, getting a bit of a reprieve. We were all exhausted, dirty…hungry. I'd spoken to our captain about O'Connor. To his credit, he believed me, and he'd taken O'Connor's sidearm away from him while we were behind the lines, just in case, you know…

"We were all sitting around eating the first hot food we'd had in days. O'Connor wasn't eating, just sitting there holding his plate. I was watching him. One of the other guys walked past him and before anybody could react, O'Connor just reached up and grabbed the guy's sidearm. Just yanked it out of the holster and put the barrel under his chin and pulled the trigger… Took the whole top of his head off…" Mike's voice faded away. He pulled his stare from nothingness back to his partner. "Thirty years ago and I remember it like it was yesterday."

"What did you do?" Steve asked gently.

Mike shook his head ironically. "Do? There was nothing I could do. We were in the middle of a war." He paused. "But it never left me…months later, when I was finally stateside, it would wake me up in the middle of the night, out of nowhere. Just like you," he said quietly, looking at Steve, "I would see him reach for the gun in slow motion, but no matter how fast I thought I was moving, I couldn't get to him in time, I couldn't stop him…."

"What happened?"

"They went away," Mike said reflectively after a long pause. "The nightmares just finally went away, by themselves… I think maybe it was because I finally convinced myself that what he did wasn't because of my failure but because of his ghosts, his self-destructiveness…and that was something that I had no control over."

Mike inner stare resurfaced, and he turned to face his partner's moist eyes. Steve stared back, weighing the words, weighing the implications.

Then, with a reassuring nod, Mike got carefully to his feet. "The first thing you need is a good night's sleep. Come with me." As he moved past Steve towards the kitchen, he briefly touched the younger man's shoulder. With a confused look at the retreating figure, Steve got up and followed.

Mike was at the kitchen sink, filling a glass with water. He put the glass on the counter and pulled a small medicine bottle out of his shirt pocket. With a quick glance at Steve, he popped the top off the bottle and shook out two tablets.

"What's this?" Steve asked warily.

"Valium," Mike said casually. "You're getting a good night's sleep tonight."

"You always carry around sleeping pills?" Steve asked pointedly, knowing that Mike hadn't left the hospital with any.

"I had the prescription filled this afternoon," came the smug reply.

"What? When? I dropped you off at your place just before 8 for Jeannie's call and picked you up at 9:30."

Mike smiled mischievously as he handed him the pills and picked up the glass. "All these years and you still haven't figured me out yet, have you?"

Steve took the pills almost absent-mindedly, frowning.

Trying his best to keep the mood light for the moment, Mike teased, "Hey, you haven't solved the riddle of the newspaper yet – what makes you think you'll figure this out anytime soon? Here," he handed over the glass, "swallow."

Steve popped the tablets into his mouth and took a drink of water, Mike watching him closely.

Taking pity on him, Mike smiled as he took the glass back and put it on the counter. "I'll let you off the hook. I found the scotch bottle this morning. And I have Dr. Peters phone number too. I called him when you went to the bodega this afternoon. He had the prescription made up for me, and I had one of the unies pick it up at the hospital and deliver it to my place tonight."

Steve smiled in spite of himself. "You never cease to amaze me."

"That's my job," Mike chuckled. "You have about a half hour till you fall asleep, so we both better get ready for bed. I'll use the bathroom first." He exited the kitchen and climbed the stairs.

Steve watched him go with an affectionate smile. He glanced back at the empty scotch bottle on the counter. Truth be told, he was glad that Mike finally knew and that he no longer had a secret being kept.

# # # # #

In his pajama bottoms and t-shirt, Steve exited the bathroom and started down the stairs. The bedroom door was closed and the light off; he had wanted to talk to Mike before he fell asleep, to thank him for, well, for everything, he thought.

But he was brought up short at the bottom of the stairs when he saw Mike, in pajamas, slippers and dressing gown, sitting on the left side of the couch, a pillow on his lap.

Mike smiled at his confused partner and patted the pillow. "Come here, lay down," he said easily.

Steve held his ground, frowning. "What?"

Mike's smile disappeared and he cleared his throat self-consciously. "Look, for the past four weeks you've been looking after me. It's time I got the chance to look after you."

About to protest, Steve realized that it was very important to the older man that he be allowed to do this. And if he was going to be truthful to himself, he needed this as well. "Are you sure you're up to this?" he asked as he approached the couch.

"Well, we'll see tomorrow morning, won't we?" Mike said with a grin. "Don't worry about me, I'll be fine."

Steve turned off the table lamp, laid down on the couch, pulled the blanket over himself, and rested his head on the pillow.

"Comfy?" Mike asked.

"Uhm-hmmm."

"Starting to feel sleepy?"

"Uhm-hmmm."

"Good." Mike laid his head back against the sofa and his right hand lightly on Steve's chest. Seconds later, he felt the warmth of Steve's hand over his. "You said it before, Steve. We're going to get through this, you and I."


	31. Chapter 31

Steve woke slowly, noticing sunlight once more peaking through the curtains. He laid still for several long seconds, marveling that he had indeed slept, then was startled when he realized the pillow under his head was on the couch and not in Mike's lap.

He tossed the blanket off and sat up, rubbing his hands over his face and through his hair, and was again rewarded with the welcoming aroma of fresh-brewed coffee. He got up quietly and crossed to the kitchen entrance.

Mike, still in his pajamas and robe, was standing at the counter, pouring a mug of coffee. There were several bowls and a loaf of bread on the counter, and the table was set for two.

Steve cleared his throat softly, and Mike spun around. "Hey, you're up. How did you sleep?" he asked with a grin.

The younger man smiled quizzically. "I think you could answer that better than me."

"You're right. Well, you didn't wake _me_ up, that's for sure. And you didn't move when I slipped out from under you about an hour ago, so that's good news, I guess."

Steve moved further into the room. "How do _you_ feel?"

Mike turned back to the counter. "I'm a little stiff but I'm okay," he said quietly, then louder, "Coffee?"

"Please."

"Take a seat," Mike instructed as he poured another mug. "I'm cooking this morning, so just relax. I might need you once or twice to pick up the heavy fry pan, but other than that, just relax."

Steve sat at the table. "Before you ask, I didn't have a nightmare last night. At least not one that I can remember. Thank you for that."

"Don't thank me, thank the Valium," Mike said with a chuckle. "So, you have your pick this morning: I have the ingredients for French toast, or pancakes, or bacon and eggs. Your choice?" He turned with upraised eyebrows.

Steve smiled, shaking his head and gesturing at the counter. "When did you get all –"

With an upraised hand, Mike cut him off. "You have to ask? I mean really, when are you going to learn –"

"I know, I know, you have friends in the department…"

Laughing quietly, Mike picked up his mug and saluted. "He's learning, he's learning. So, what's your pleasure?"

Steve thought about it for several seconds. "Pancakes. I've heard Jeannie bragging about your pancakes, but I don't remember you ever making them for me before."

"Then pancakes it is. It'll be a few minutes, why don't you use the time to wash up."

Steve climbed the stairs to the bathroom. He stared at himself in the mirror. Other than the unkempt hair and morning stubble, he had to admit that the full night's sleep had done him a world of good. He acknowledged to himself that the chances were very good that he had not seen the end of the nightmares, but this was a very positive start.

As he was leaving the bathroom a few minutes later, he heard the phone ring. "Can you get that?" he heard Mike yell, "I'm kinda busy flipping pancakes.

Steve walked into the bedroom and lifted the receiver. "Good morning, temporary Stone residence," he said with a chuckle.

Mike was putting a plate of pancakes on the table when Steve walked into the kitchen again. "Who was that?"

"Ah, Rudy," Steve said distractedly as he sat. "He got a call from Captain Stewart over in Oakland. Seems there's a possible break in the Annenberg investigation, but he didn't want to say anything over the phone."

Mike turned from the counter, another plate of pancakes in hand, smiling.

"They want me over in Oakland this morning, to bring me up to speed."

"Then eat up and go," Mike said encouragingly as he crossed to the table and sat.

"Rudy suggested I bring you with me, if you want," Steve ventured cautiously.

Mike's eyes dropped to the table as he picked up the syrup. "Naw, I think I'd better stay here. You go."

Steve watched as the older man poured the syrup on his pancakes, avoiding his stare. "Mike, it's Oakland. There won't be anyone there except the OPD guys and maybe one or two of our guys from Homicide."

Mike's put the syrup down and froze; he knew what Steve was implying.

He raised his eyes slowly then nodded in acquiescence. "Okay, sure, why not."

Steve nodded back. "Good." He looked at his plate. "These look great," he said enthusiastically, reaching for the glass of orange juice.

Mike smiled appreciatively but Steve couldn't miss the haunted look that had suddenly appeared in his eyes.

# # # # #

"Mike Stone, how the hell are you?" Captain Stewart held out his hand as the San Francisco detectives walked into the Oakland Homicide squadroom.

"Paul, it's been years," Mike smiled warmly as they shook hands. "You're a captain now, hunh?"

"Yeah, yeah," Stewart muttered uneasily, "I'm not sure if I like it though; I prefer the streets."

"Me too," said Mike with a grin.

Stewart sobered. "I heard you were hit in that ambush. How are you doing?"

"Good, good," Mike answered. He nodded towards Steve. "He's been taking very good care of me."

Steve smiled self-consciously as Stewart looked at him with renewed admiration. "That's what partners are for, right?" the captain said soberly, as everyone's thoughts returned to the reason they were all there.

"Fellas," Stewart said louder, signaling the subject change, "we're gonna move this to Robbery. There're too many eyes on us right now because of this Annenberg thing, and we don't want this to get out until we're ready." He looked from one partner to the other. "So let's wander over to Robbery, shall we? I'll explain more there."

# # # # #

Oakland's Robbery Division was bustling; almost every desk's second chair was filled and the decibel level in the room was deafening.

"What's going on?" Mike asked, surprised at the amount of activity for a Monday morning.

"The Roma are in town," Stewart explained with a sigh. "I know you guys have had to deal with this before as well. It's our time right now, would you believe it? But, all this activity is a good cover for us." He turned to his San Francisco colleagues. "Mike, why don't you wait here for a minute, there's someone I want to introduce you to. I'm just going to hook Steve up with Jerry Coleman."

Steve followed Stewart out of Robbery and down the corridor. Stewart opened a door and Steve did a double take as he walked into the room; Jerry Coleman was sitting at a table with Drew Benedict and another black man he didn't recognize.

Coleman, grinning from ear to ear, leaned back in his chair. "Steve, you remember 'Beenie', I'm sure," and the detective and the C.I. exchanged smiles of acknowledgement. "And this gentleman," he gestured at the other man, "is the elusive but exceedingly important to us, J.C. Washington."

# # # # #

Mike was standing in the middle of the Robbery squadroom, watching and listening to the commotion around him with no small amount of longing. In truth, he wanted to get back to work with every fibre of his being; in reality, he knew he had to get a lot better physically before he could even start to address the emotional issues he knew were lurking.

He watched Captain Stewart crossing the room with another man in tow. The tall well-toned blond extended his hand as they got closer.

"Mike Stone?" he asked, "I'm George Petrovich. Kako cte (How are you)?"

Mike's eyes lit up. "Vi govorite srpski (You speak Serbian)?"

"Da. Tecno. Vi (Yes. Fluently. You)?"

"Nisam ga govorio godinama (I haven't spoken it for years). Ja sam malo van forme (I'm a little out of practice)."

Stewart laughed. "'Luis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship…'" Both Mike and Petrovich turned to him with big smiles.

"I'll leave you two to get acquainted." Stewart walked away, shaking his head and grinning.

Petrovich gestured over his shoulder. "Why don't we move into an office, where it's a little quieter."

"Sounds good," agreed Mike, suddenly very pleased that he had decided to accompany Steve to the other side of the Bay Bridge. He fell into step behind the Oakland detective.

Abruptly there was shout, a scream, then other shouts. One of the Roma, a very large man with long black hair and untrimmed beard, his hands cuffed behind his back, stood abruptly and made a run for the door. Two detectives made a lunge for the man but they were too late. He bulled his way forward with surprising swiftness and before anyone could get out of his path, he barreled straight into Mike, slamming him hard into the wall.

Petrovich grabbed at the man before he could get any further and dragged him to the floor. Almost instantly, three other officers were on top of the felon and had him pinned. Petrovich pulled himself up and glanced over at Mike.

The San Francisco detective was sitting on the floor with his back against a file cabinet, his arms wrapped around his chest, gasping for breath, eyes closed and face contorted in pain.

# # # # #

"Hey, man," said Beenie with a wide grin as he stood and shook Steve's hand, "good to see you."

"You too."

Beenie turned to Coleman. "Ah, I'm jus' the messenger, so to speak, in all this – an' I don' wanna know any more about what's happenin' than I already do. So I'm gonna take myself outside and let you three do yo' thing all be yo'selves," he said with a smile as he circled the table and backed out the door.

Steve and Coleman exchanged looks, Steve confused, Coleman bemused.

The Oakland detective turned to Washington. "J.C., this is Inspector Steve Keller, San Francisco Homicide. His partner was shot during that ambush last month. He's our San Fran counterpart in all this, and I'm sure he's very interested in what you have to say."

Washington eyed Steve warily, eyes dark and unreadable. He leaned forward slowly and laid his forearms on the table.

"I hear you were in the room when the cop killed that Annenberg psycho and then killed himself, is that true?"

After Beenie's street patois, Steve was a little taken aback by Washington's clipped and precise way of speaking. He nodded. "Yes, I was."

"And from what I hear on the street, they're trying to make it sound like that kid was all innocent and you and that other cop 'assassinated' him out of a misplaced, almost criminal, sense of justice, am I right?"

Again Steve nodded.

Washington sat back with a beaming smile. "Then I just might be your knight in shining armour."

# # # # #

Self-satisfied, Beenie casually strolled down the corridor towards the Homicide office, but his attention was diverted by a commotion nearby.

He followed the racket to the still chaotic Robbery squadroom.

Captain Stewart and a couple of others cops were on their knees near the entrance, and over their heads, Beenie could see an older man leaning against a file cabinet, his face etched in agony. Beenie pushed his way forward and knelt. "What's going on here?"

Stewart glanced over his shoulder. "It's okay, Beenie, we got this."

"Is he okay?" Beenie insisted, and something about his demeanor made Stewart give him a second look.

"This is Steve's partner," Stewart said quickly in explanation, "the one who was shot. He just got slammed into the wall."

Beenie crawled closer to Mike and gently put his hands on Mike's arms, slowly pulling them away from his chest. Behind him, he heard Stewart say quietly, "His name is Mike."

"Mike," Beenie said gently, "my name is Drew. I think I can help you. But I need to take a look at you, okay?"

"Beenie…" Stewart warned, keeping his voice low.

Beenie turned to his head slightly to look at Stewart peripherally. "Captain, I can help this man. I was a Marine hospital corpsman in Vietnam for three years."


	32. Chapter 32

Captain Stewart sat back on his haunches, looking at Beenie in an entirely different light. The black man held Mike's forearms lightly, supportively.

"Do you think you can stand?" he asked and Mike, eyes still squeezed tightly shut, nodded. "Okay, let me give you a hand," Beenie said as he shifted into a crouch. "Where were you shot?" he asked quietly and Mike gestured towards the left side of his chest. "Good, okay" Beenie acknowledged, putting both hands on Mike's upper right arm, helping to take the weight as the older man got stiffly and unsteadily to his feet, eyes remaining closed. The others stood as well.

Mike swayed slightly, and Stewart's hand shot out to stabilize him. After a couple of seconds, he opened his eyes, looking at Beenie for the first time. A strained but grateful smile lit his face, and the CI smiled back.

"Hi, Mike, my name is Drew," Beenie chuckled, still holding Mike's arm.

"Hi, Drew, I'm Mike," came the warm reply.

With a smile of his own, Stewart offered, "Beenie, there's a couch in my office – it's just down the hall," he gestured over his shoulder.

Beenie looked at Mike. "Can you make it?"

"Yeah, not a problem," Mike nodded carefully, and the medic was pleased to see that the older man's breathing was returning to normal and he was beginning to relax.

# # # # #

J.C. Washington sat silently, checking out the younger cop across the table. He was not much older than Steve, but their backgrounds and current situations couldn't be more different.

Acutely aware that body language can be misinterpreted, and resisting the urge to sit back and fold his arms, it was Steve's turn to lean over the table. "So, what do you have for us? And, more importantly, what do expect to get out of this."

Washington grinned. "Get out of this?" he repeated. He shook his head and chuckled coldly. "Absolutely nothing, my friend, nothing but satisfaction." At Steve's doubtful stare, he continued, "You may not think it, either of you, but I am not a violent man. Yes, I am a drug dealer, I freely admit that; it's not a revelation to anybody, least of all you," he nodded at Coleman.

"But I can guarantee you both that I have never taken another life. That's not the way I operate. I have never murdered anyone or even had anyone murdered on my behalf – and you can take that to the bank."

Steve looked at Coleman, who nodded. "We've never had reason to connect Mr. Washington here to any drug related murders as far back as I can remember."

Washington smiled smugly. "Anyway, when that Annenberg kid came to me a few weeks' back with his two lackies, and demanded they become members of my 'gang', as they put it, I just wanted to get rid of them."

He swallowed hard and looked down, suddenly uncomfortable. When he spoke again his voice was quieter and he had lost some of his bravado.

"When I told that arrogant little bastard that the only way he could get into 'my gang' was to kill a cop, I was _not _being serious. But the look he got in his eyes – it froze me, man. I have never seen anyone look that cold before. It was like I had just made his dream come true… He scared me, and you can believe me when I tell you that I don't scare easily."

Washington leaned forward and met Steve's penetrating stare. "I didn't forget that little psycho but I didn't think I'd ever hear from him again…no one's going to kill a cop just to get into some gang. That's what I thought." He paused. "I know Beenie told you all this, but I also know you have to hear it from me. I know you know that I went into hiding after the shooting…I honestly thought that little psychopath was going to come looking for me and demand to become part of 'my gang' because he did what I told him to do."

He sat back and folded his arms. "After I heard Annenberg was killed, I figured I was safe, and I went back into business." He cut a furtive, guilty glance towards Coleman. "Then I read in the papers about how his family and that shyster lawyer of theirs were going to charge you with 'wrongful death' or 'conspiracy to murder' for 'assassinating' their innocent boy…and I knew I had to do something."

Coleman sat forward in his chair and looked at Steve. "Mr. Washington has agreed to not only provide us with a deposition, but he is also willing to appear before a grand jury. At considerable risk to himself, I might add."

Washington smiled. "I want to see that white boy's reputation burn in hell, Inspector Keller. And if in doing that, I also happen to help you out, then so be it," he finished with a chuckle.

Steve smiled back then held out his right hand. "Thank you, Mr. Washington, thank you. For me and my partner."

Washington took Steve's hand and shook it. Coleman cleared his throat and both men turned in his direction. The Oakland detective smiled. "Not only is he willing to do that, but he has other news for us as well."

Steve turned to Washington with a curious frown.

"I have a lot of…associates, you could call them. I've put word on the street for everyone to be on the lookout for those two .44's you're still looking for. Nobody's got them, as far as I know, but my people are on it now, and I have a lot more people on the street than the OPD does. If those guns are out there, we'll find them."

# # # # #

"Wow, I was not expecting that," Steve said to Coleman as they exited the interrogation room and started down the corridor back to Robbery.

"Well, it's a start but it's no guarantee. We still have to get people to believe that a self-confessed drug dealer has more credibility than the heir to a prominent and popular family. Bottom line, we need to find those guns."

They stepped into the bustle of the Robbery squadroom. Captain Stewart was in a huddle with a couple of others at the far side and he crossed the room towards them quickly, brow furrowed. Both Steve and Coleman smiled at his approach, but when the look wasn't returned, Steve's heart started to pound a little faster. He glanced around the room but didn't see Mike and he began to have a bad feeling.

Stewart took the San Francisco detective by the elbow and pulled him aside. "Listen, Steve, there was a little incident earlier…"

"Where's Mike?" Steve asked anxiously.

"He's lying down in my office, he –"

"What happened?"

"One of Roma we were interviewing made a break for it, a really big guy. Mike happened to be in his way and he got pushed very hard into the wall. It shook him up quite a bit."

"Where's your office?" Steve demanded, pulling out of Stewart's grasp and heading back out into the corridor.

"He's in good hands," Stewart said quickly, following, "he's with a former marine corpsman…."

Steve didn't seem to hear him. Stewart caught up to the agitated inspector and led him to his office. But before he could get the door open, they were both brought up short at the sound of laughter from within. Steve recognized Mike's maniacal cackle instantly. He and Stewart exchanged perplexed looks.

Stewart opened the door and they both looked in. Beenie, a coffee cup in hand, was sitting on Stewart's desk, facing the couch, on which sat Mike, both men seemingly convulsed in hysterics. The only discordant note that Steve could see, it seemed, was while Mike was holding his own coffee cup in his right hand and trying not to moan in pain while he laughed, his left arm was encased in a flimsy first-aid-kit sling.

Beenie was the first to notice the pair standing in the doorway. "Hey," he saluted in greeting, raising his cup, "join us, gentlemen. Sorry but we can't offer you anything stronger than coffee."

"And Tylenol," Mike added with a chuckle.

With one more baffled glance at Stewart, Steve entered the room, crossing to the couch to stand over his partner. "Are you okay?"

Mike looked up guiltily. "I'm fine, really. I just had the wind knocked out of me, so to speak." He shrugged self-consciously as Steve stared pointedly at the sling. "If you don't believe me, ask him." Mike nodded towards Beenie and Steve spun on his heel.

Grinning from ear to ear, Beenie nodded in agreement. "He's fine. I checked him out. He's gonna be a little sore the next day or so, and I told him to keep his arm in a sling for next 24 hours and that'll help. But he's fine… really."

"You were a corpsman?" Steve asked with no small amount of awe.

As Beenie started to nod, still smiling, Mike jumped in. "You bet he was – the battle for Hue for starters. He wasn't a jarhead, like me – Marine corpsmen are actually Navy, but hey, close enough." His voice was suffused with pride.

Beenie and Mike exchanged a warm look as Steve shook his head slightly. "Well, I hate to break this 'reunion' up," he said with a chuckle, "but I better get you home. And I have a meeting with my PBA rep this afternoon as well."

Beenie slid quickly off the desk and crossed to the couch. "Excuse me," he said politely as he pushed Steve slightly aside, took Mike's coffee cup and set it on the desk, then helped Mike get to his feet by holding his right arm. Steve stood back and shot a bemused smile in Stewart's direction, whose wide-eyed shrug conveyed his bafflement as well.

# # # # #

Steve glanced across the front seat. "You okay?" he asked. Mike had been preternaturally quiet since they had left the OPD parking lot.

Mike started slightly. "Oh, yeah, I'm fine. I was just thinking about Drew… Beenie."

"What about him?"

"I don't know, just, I guess, about how we seem to judge a book by it's cover sometimes. You look at him and you think, drug dealer, right? Or bookie. Something to do with the street, the wrong side of the law."

Steve nodded.

"He was in the Navy for six years, three of them in 'Nam, and then he comes home, against the war because of what he's lived through and what he's seen. He can't get a job, there's no GI Bill to help him get ahead, and he falls back on the only thing he knows – hustling, getting by.

"All that training, all that promise – gone to waste. But there's still that kernel inside him, the one that says to him, you're a good guy, you've got things to contribute. So what does he do – he becomes a CI. A CI, for god's sake." Steve knew what Mike meant; it was an extremely dangerous occupation at the best of times, and one never for the faint of heart.

"Well, he's blown that now," Mike continued darkly. "He's not going to be safe in Oakland anymore… I wonder what he's going to do?"

Steve knew the question was rhetorical. "Well, I think you might get the chance to ask him." When Mike turned to him questioningly, he smiled. "I gave him my address and phone number, told him to stop by tomorrow sometime during the day. I have to go into the office for some more meetings and I thought he could keep you company."

With a wide grin, Mike settled back in the seat. "Thanks, buddy boy."

He chuckled. "You know, this turned out to be a pretty good trip all around, don't you think? You got some good news, and I made two new friends."

"Yeah, if you don't count being used as a bowling pin."

Mike snorted. "Yeah. Oh well – we still have some Percodan left, don't we?"

They both laughed as Steve eased the car onto the Bay Bridge and towards home.

# # # # #

Gerry O'Brien was still at his desk, working under the light of his desktop lamp. Weary, he tossed the pen to the desk, ran his hands over his face and stretched his back and shoulder muscles.

As he reached for the pen again, there was a soft knock on his office door. He looked up to see a figure silhouetted in the entrance, backlit in the subdued fluorescent light from the hallway.

The visitor moved further into the room, into the spill from the desk lamp. O'Brien scrambled to his feet. "Judge Cooper." He was a little surprised to see the older man in a golf shirt and slacks instead of the usual robes.

The jurist waved a hand. "Sit down, Gerry, this isn't an official visit," he said good-naturedly. As O'Brien began to sit, Cooper tossed a small plastic case onto his desk.

O'Brien looked from the case to the judge. "What is this?"

Cooper's stare was a strange mixture of warmth and steel. "I've never liked Walter Annenberg Junior – I always thought he was a pompous little prick, using his money and family influence to buy his own way. Turns out I'm not alone." He gestured towards the case. "We belong to the same club."

O'Brien picked up the case and opened it. There was a cassette tape inside, unlabeled. He looked back up at Cooper.

"Have a listen to it and make up your own mind. Use it, don't use it – it's up to you." With an intense stare that conveyed everything O'Brien needed to know, the jurist turned and quietly left the room.

The district attorney sat quietly for several seconds, then opened a lower desk drawer and took out a small tape recorder. He inserted the tape, pressed play, and sat back to listen.


	33. Chapter 33

It was shortly after 7 pm when Steve put his key in the lock of his apartment door. He was just about to go in when he heard his name called.

"Oh, Steven, Steven!"

He looked to his right. "Mrs. Neidermaier, how are you doing?"

"Oh, I'm doing just fine, just fine," his elderly neighbour said brightly from her doorway. "How is that very nice partner of yours feeling? Is he getting better?"

"Yes, he is. He's doing great."

"Oh, that's so good to hear."

"Yes, I'll tell him you asked about him." Steve took a step into his apartment then stopped. Frowning, he took a step back and looked in her direction again. "Mrs. Neidermaier!"

She poked her head back out the door. "Yes?"

"Um, did you happen to come by last week and give Mike a newspaper?"

"The one with that article about you? Yes, I most certainly did. You know, he didn't seem to know anything about it but he told me not to worry about you, that everything was going to be fine."

With a dry chuckle, Steve smiled smugly. "Thank you, Mrs. Neidermaier, you've helped me solve a little mystery."

"Oh," she said, somewhat confused, "oh, well, I'm glad I could help. You have a good evening now." She stepped back into her apartment and closed the door.

Steve tossed his keys onto the side table and, chuckling softly, took the stairs to the second floor two at a time. Mike, in his pajamas and robe, his left arm strapped up, was lying on the bed, reading. He looked over his glasses as Steve entered the room.

"You're later than you thought. How'd it go?"

"Okay. They're pretty sure Greenspan won't be filing charges, he's just sabre-rattling. But still… I really wish we could find those guns."

Mike put the book down. "I'll be happy when all this is over once and for all. So, what are we gonna do for dinner?"

"I was thinking of ordering Chinese. That sound okay?"

"Sure."

Steve wheeled around to leave then very deliberately turned back, almost as an afterthought. "By the way," he began with barely contained glee, "I think I might have figured out where you got that newspaper from?"

"Really?" Mike took off his glasses. "Enlighten me."

"Well, it did take me quite awhile, as you're well aware, but in the end, it was just too obvious."

"Really?" Mike said again.

With a wicked grin, Steve crossed to the door. "I think she has a crush on you," he teased as he left the room. Mike's laughter followed him down the stairs.

# # # # #

Steve finished filling the plate up with chop suey and chow mein and put it on the tray table on the bed in front of Mike, who picked up the chopsticks. "Thanks. This looks good."

"Silver Dragon is always good," Steve agreed as he filled his own plate.

"So," Mike said, clearing his throat, "I want you to take another Valium tonight, alright? One night without a nightmare doesn't mean anything and you know that, right?"

Steve took a deep breath. "Yeah, I know."

"So, do me a favour, will you?" Mike continued. "I can't sleep sitting up with you tonight and I don't want you sleeping alone, so… for me, could you bring some of the couch cushions up here and sleep on the floor so I can keep an eye on you?"

Steve was half-tempted to object, but he knew how important it was to the older man to get back into guardian-mode. With a self-conscious smile, he nodded in confirmation as he sat and put his plate on his knees.

"We're quite the pair, aren't we?" Mike said with a wry laugh.

# # # # #

Steve tiptoed around the room, getting ready for work, trying not to disturb his still sleeping partner. The Valium had done its work again and he'd had a nightmare-free night and a good solid sleep. He wasn't sure about Mike though, and fact that the older man was still dead to the world worried him a bit.

He left the room and went down to the kitchen, filling and plugging in the percolator. He glanced at the clock on the stove – 10:15. He was running late, but wanted to make sure there was coffee ready for Mike whenever he woke up. He'd grab something to eat on the way to Bryant Street.

He was rolling down his sleeves and doing up the cuff buttons when he heard a soft knock on his front door. He opened to door to find Mrs. Neidermaier standing there, newspaper in hand, and he had to stifle a chuckle.

"Good morning, Steven," she said brightly, a twinkle in her eyes. "I'm just delivering the paper for your partner. I usually just leave it in your mailbox," she leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, "but I saw you were still home and thought I'd just give it to you." With that, she put the paper in Steve's hand, turned and walked back to her apartment, leaving him standing in the doorway, not having uttered a word.

# # # # #

Haseejian tossed a report onto the desk. "Have a look at this," he said eagerly.

Steve looked from the sheet of paper up into his colleague's smiling face. "What is it?"

"It just might be the break we've been looking for." He emphasized his point by tapping his finger on the report as he sat on the corner of the desk. "Some bright patrolman over in Traffic decided to check out a hunch. We'd gone through all the parking tickets and moving violations issued on that Monday, and hadn't come up with anything to do with that Annenberg kid or the other two.

"But this young patrolman, he decided to do a little detective work – I think this guy deserves a promotion – and he checked out if there were any vehicles registered in Annenberg's mother's _maiden_ name. And…bingo!"

Haseejian pointed to a name on the report. "A 1972 cherry red Pontiac Trans Am. It was parked too close to a hydrant. Twelve blocks from Bryant Street."

"You're kidding?"

Haseejian smiled. "So, as of this morning, we have a bunch of guys out looking in every nook, cranny and manhole for those damn guns, from here to there, and four blocks in all directions. If those guns are out there, we'll find 'em."

# # # # #

It was late afternoon in the Homicide bureau and Steve was working on some paperwork at his desk when the phone in Mike's empty office rang. With a tiny pang of melancholy, he entered the room and sat at his partner's desk, picking up the receiver.

"Homicide, Stone's office," he announced crisply.

"Steve, I'm glad you answered," came Gerry O'Brien's clipped and hurried voice. "Listen, ah, I know it's getting late in the day, but I was wondering if you could find your way over to my office. There's, ah, there's something I want to let you know about."

"Okay," Steve answered slowly, a little nonplussed by the district attorney's abnormally hesitant manner. "I'll get over there as soon as I can."

"Great." O'Brien hung up without a parting salutation, another aberration that Steve found disconcerting. He actually looked at the receiver as he hung it up, then crossed back to his desk, put his paperwork away, snagged his jacket and left.

# # # # #

"Come in," O'Brien called in answer to the knock and Steve opened the office door. "Steve, thanks for coming. You know Eric Karlson, right?"

"Yeah, of course." Steve shook the young ADA's hand as he entered the office.

"Steve," acknowledged Karlson, half-standing. "Good to see you."

"Ah, Steve, could you shut the door please," O'Brien asked, and as the cop did so, he opened his desk drawer, took out the small tape recorder and placed it on his desk.

Steve turned from the door and took a seat beside Karlson across the desk from O'Brien. He looked quizzically at the tape recorder but held his tongue.

"Steve, something has fallen into our laps, metaphorically speaking of course, that could have a huge impact on the Annenberg…situation. It has the potential to be very explosive, if we use it in the right way, but also very controversial and incendiary."

At Steve's apprehensive stare, the district attorney paused, as if deciding to try a different tack. "Let me backtrack a minute. A cassette tape came into my possession recently that has presented us with an ethical dilemna. If we choose to use it, and legally we have no qualms about doing so - its provenance, so to speak, is without question – then we have to be absolutely sure that we do so in the strictest confidence. Very few people will know if we do, but I want to make sure that all the parties that are involved in this…situation…are aware of the possible consequences if we decide to go ahead and use it."

Steve leaned back and took a deep breath. "Gerry, what the hell is going on?" he asked, glancing at Karlson.

O' Brien sighed and shook his head slightly. "Steve, how well do you know Morris Greenspan?"

"Personally, I don't know him at all. I know he's Annenberg's lawyer and he's one of the best, but that's it."

"I've known Morris for over ten years," said O'Brien amicably. "He's not only a great lawyer, he's a great guy. I sometimes question his choice of clients, but hey, he's the one with the million dollar house and chauffeur-driven Mercedes, so who am I to question his ethics, right?" He chuckled dryly then pushed the tape recorder closer to Steve.

"Walter Annenberg Junior belongs to a lot of private clubs, one of which is the Bohemian Club. There are some members of that club, who also happen to have a strong moral code and a conscience, who are, shall I say, less than happy to have a fellow member connected with the 'tragedy' that occurred last month.

"It seems that our Mr. Annenberg arrogantly believes that his views and his values are shared by his fellow club members, and maybe they are by some …but not all."

O'Brien paused, looking down at his desk and carefully choosing his next words. "What you are going to hear doesn't leave this room if and until we decide how we are going to use it, if we use it at all. And that will be a decision we will come to as a group, unanimously."

O'Brien pressed the play button on the tape recorder and sat back. The sound was slightly muffled and there was a lot of background noise of what sounded like ice cubes tinkling in glasses and other conversations, but the loudest voice was quite audible and intelligible.

There was a loud and belligerent laugh.

"That's Annenberg," said O'Brien, pointing at the tape recorder.

The recording continued. "Yeah, so they've got my kids ass in a sling right now, but not for long. That Jew lawyer of mine, he's as sharp as they come. That's why you always hire a Jew lawyer right?" Another grating belly laugh. "A Jew lawyer, a Chink to do your laundry, a Kraut to fix your car, and a bean-eater to take care of your lawn, right?" More raucous laughter. "Oh yeah, I almost forgot, a darkie to answer your front door!" The laughter reached an uncontrolled, terrifying pitch.

O'Brien snapped the recorder off. The silence in the small office was deafening.

Steve had a hand over his mouth. Slowly he looked up from the recorder to meet O'Brien's steady but unreadable gaze. He inhaled deeply then let his breath out in a loud sigh. "Jesus, Gerry, I really didn't think people like that existed anymore," he said shakily.

O'Brien nodded slowly. "I had to listen to it a few times before I could get through it without exploding." He glanced at Karlson. "So, the decision we have to make is – do we take this to Morris, or do we bury it?"


	34. Chapter 34

It was almost 9:30 when a weary Steve Keller put the key in the lock of his front door. Entering the apartment, he was pleasantly surprised to see his partner sitting in the armchair, watching "Police Story" on his small TV.

"Wow, you had a long day," Mike said sympathetically as he got up to turn the volume down.

Stretching slightly as he threw his keys on the table, Steve groaned and sighed at the same time. "It sure was. I need a beer." He shrugged off his jacket and tossed it on the couch as he crossed to the kitchen. Mike followed.

"Did you have dinner?"

Steve was reaching into the fridge. "Sort of, I guess. We were really busy all day."

Mike gestured at the fridge. "There's a small all-dressed pizza in there for you. You just need to heat it up. You want it?"

Steve looked back into the fridge and noticed the box. "Seriously? Yeah, that would be great."

"Good." Mike turned on the oven. "You go back into the living room and sit down and relax. I can do this."

Mike took the pizza box out of the fridge and set it on the counter, opting to give the younger man a couple of minutes alone. He could tell the moment Steve stepped through the door that something significant had transpired during the day, and he also knew his best course of action was patience. He took his time taking cutlery and a plate out of the drawer and cupboard.

After putting the pizza in the still warming oven, Mike strolled back into the living room and sat in the armchair. Steve's head was tilted back and his eyes closed, the beer in his hand. With a shake of his head, Steve opened his eyes and looked over at his partner. "Did you eat?"

Mike smiled broadly. "Yeah. As a matter of fact, Drew and I shared a large pizza just covered in anchovies," he chuckled.

Steve sat up straighter. "Oh my god, I forgot. He came?"

Mike nodded, still smiling. "He sure did. He got here around noon and left just about an hour ago."

"You're kidding?"

"Nope. It was a very good day." Mike's smile was soft and contented.

"What did you guys do? Just talk?"

"Yeah," Mike nodded with a small shrug. "Yeah, I guess that's what we did, although we did go for a walk at one point." At Steve's frown, he continued quickly. "I've got to start getting my strength and stamina back if I want to get back to work, so we just went for a walk. And I took my time on the hills, so don't worry about me, I'm fine… It felt good to be outside again for longer than just walking back and forth to the car."

Steve smiled, chuckled and relaxed, taking a sip of his beer.

"Drew Benedict is a pretty interesting guy. We talked a lot about his background, his service, his 'career' as a CI… what he's gonna do now…"

"What _is_ he gonna do?"

"Well, right now he's heading back east; he's got a sister in the midwest and a brother on the east coast. OPD are gonna help him out. Some of the guys over there have connections that they're gonna use for him… They're gonna take good care of him. He told me not to worry about him…"

"But you're gonna worry anyway, right?"

Mike looked at him sheepishly. "Probably." He sighed. "I did talk to him about going back into medicine. He's got the gift and he shouldn't squander it. I think he might give it a try."

"That would be amazing."

"Yeah, it would, wouldn't it?" Mike asked wistfully. "It was the most remarkable day – thank you."

"What for?" asked Steve with a puzzled but happy smile.

"For arranging it all." Mike took a second to compose himself, looking down and taking a deep breath. "These past few weeks have been …" he hesitated, "…I know how hard it's been for you, and I'm sorry –"

Steve sat forward quickly, alarmed. "Mike, you don't have to apologize. None of this is your fault, for god's sake –"

Mike put up his hands and Steve stopped. The older man mentally kicked himself; he didn't want to put any more burdens on his partner right now.

Steve watched as Mike sighed self-consciously and shrugged apologetically. "Sorry. It's been that kind of a day."

"I hear ya," Steve agreed as he sat back and took a swig of beer. In the silence that followed, he ventured carefully, "You know, you're gonna have to see Lenny before they'll allow you to go back to work." He looked up from the floor and met the steel blue gaze evenly. "I'll have to as well, I know that. But I know what my issues are; do you know yours?"

The question was painfully direct, but Steve knew the subject needed be broached. If he was to get his partner back, that road needed to be traveled, and the sooner the journey was started, the sooner it would end.

It was several long seconds before the blue-eyed stare dropped to the floor and Mike began to nod slowly. When he finally spoke, there was no anger in his voice. "I'm, ah… I'm very aware of what my 'issues' are, believe me. But really, there's only one… I have no problem going back to Bryant Street, going into the building or the garage. I don't remember the shooting… I got hit with the second bullet and I only vaguely remember hearing the first one. Both the garage and the building hold no demons for me, none.

"It might be, and probably is, a bigger issue for the other guys, especially the ones who never lost consciousness. But I have no memory of anything that happened in that garage."

Steve thought back to those horrific moments he and Elliott had had to endure in the parking structure, and he realized with surprise that in his visits to the Hall since then, he had always parked outside. He hadn't stepped foot in the garage either.

Mike didn't seem to notice his companion's sudden inward focus. He was too busy marshalling his own thoughts. "When the time is right, I'll talk to Lenny, but not a moment before." He looked at Steve kindly, trying to keep the sting out of his words. "And that's going to be between him and me, Steve."

The younger man smiled. "I understand," he nodded sympathetically. Then with a chuckle, he continued, "I'd rather not have you in the room when I talk to him either."

Mike laughed in agreement. From the kitchen, they heard a 'ting' from the stove clock. "I think the pizza is finally ready. No, no, you stay here," he said quickly as Steve started to stand, waving the younger man back down, "I can get this."

After Mike disappeared into the kitchen, Steve leaned his head back against the couch and closed his eyes. Even if Mike was reluctant to talk to him about what he was going through, he had come far enough along to acknowledge that there was at least one issue he had to address. That was indeed progress.

A minute later, Mike walked back into the living room with a plate in his right hand, cutlery and a paper napkin in his left. "Here," he said, holding out the plate for Steve to take. "Want another beer?"

"Why not? Thanks."

Mike handed over the cutlery and took the empty bottle. When he returned a few seconds later, he put a fresh bottle on the end table then sat back down in the armchair.

His eyebrows climbing into his hair, Steve asked through a mouthful of pizza, "You're having a beer?"

Mike chuckled. "Yeah, I'm living dangerously tonight. Hey, I'm not on antibiotics anymore, I'm allowed. I have to start getting my life back, right?" he joked.

"Good for you."

Mike sat back with a smile, watching his young partner fondly. "Pizza good?"

Mouth still full, Steve nodded enthusiastically. "Really good. What parlour did you order this from?"

"Pizza Palace."

"I've never used them before." He chased the pizza with a swig of beer.

"You should start. Good pizza."

Steve nodded again. "You want any?"

Mike threw up his hands. "No, I'm good, thanks. Besides, yours doesn't have anchovies on it."

"Thank god."

Mike chuckled. In the ensuing silence, his smile slowly disappeared. Finally he asked quietly, "Steve, what happened today?"

The young cop froze momentarily then shook his head. "Nothing, why?"

Mike cocked his head and looked at him with a slight smile and a sigh. "You really think I don't know when you walk in the door that there's something you're trying to keep from me? We've been together how long?"

Steve smiled cheekily and took a sip of beer. "I was wondering how long it was going to take you to ask me."

"Okay, smarty, you _do_ have me figured out. Now answer my question."

Steve took another bite and Mike waited patiently for him to chew and swallow. "Do you want me to eat or do you want me to talk?" he asked drolly.

"You never had trouble talking with pizza in your mouth before. Give."

Smiling with feigned insolence, Steve chewed and swallowed slowly. With a triumphant grin, he finished up with a long swig of beer, while Mike, trying not to laugh at the good-natured insolence, sat and watched, remarkably holding his tongue. "Finished?"

Steve put the beer bottle down on the end table and sat back. The teasing smile disappeared. "Actually, there is something I want to talk to you about."

Mike leaned forward, his expression turning serious as well.

"Gerry asked to see me today. He came into possession of something that could, well, not end the case but could, let's say, seriously derail it for the foreseeable future."

Mike's brow furrowed but he still said nothing, letting his young friend set the pace and tone.

Steve smiled to himself. "Gerry told us that nothing of what we learned could leave his room, but he also told me as I left that he knew I was going to want to talk to you about it." He met Mike's stare. "I think he thinks we're the same person." They both chuckled.

"So what is it?"

Steve leaned forward himself. "It's a tape." For the next several minutes, in great detail, he relayed all the information he could remember: of how Gerry had received the tape, the details of which were still in the dark; the contents of the tape; and the impending decision with regards to the future of the tape and the information it contained.

When he finished talking, both he and his partner sat back. Mike had remained silent throughout. Now he let his breath out in a derisive snort. "That smug bastard," he spit out angrily. "The apple…right?"

He shook his head again, trying to get his anger under control.

Steve nodded in agreement.

"So you all have to come to an agreement on what to do with this information, is that it?"

Steve nodded again.

"Wow." Mike looked at him evenly. "You took Ethics in university, didn't you?"

"Yeah."

"So, what do you think should be done with this?"

Steve took a long deep breath. "Part of me thinks, using it is dirty pool. But the cop and the partner in me says, the bastard made his own bed, it's about time he was forced to lie in it." He smiled affectionately. "You?"

"Well," Mike started slowly, "seeing as it's probably his son's bullet that went through my chest, I think any way that bastard can be taken down is fair play." He paused. "But, my opinion doesn't count. And you know that. How I feel doesn't matter; you are the one that will have to live with the decision. So, no matter what you decide, I am behind you one hundred percent. You know that as well, right?"

Steve nodded. "There is no guarantee that if we present this to Greenspan that he's going to bail on Annenberg, but it is a possibility. If he does, it will hurt Annenberg's chances, but it won't eliminate them completely. I'm sure there are other lawyers out there who would jump at the chance to represent a family as wealthy as that."

"But," Mike countered, "if Greenspan's bailing on Annenberg is seen for what it is, a lawyer losing faith in his client, it can't do anything but help your cause, right?"

"Best case scenario," Steve agreed.

A silence filled the room as the partners reflected on the dilemna. Finally Mike took a deep breath. "So, what happens tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow? Tomorrow we have another meeting – me, Gerry, Cavallero from over in Oakland, Stewart, a few others. We're going to make the final decision then."

"Good." Mike stood. "I don't know about you, but I'm ready for bed. So," he said, clapping his hands, "one more decision for you tonight."

"Oh yeah?" countered Steve with a smile, also getting to his feet. "What's that?"

"Well, as far as I could tell last night, you didn't have a nightmare, am I right?"

"You are."

"So tonight, you get a choice. You take a pill and you can sleep down here all by yourself. _Or_, you don't take a pill and you sleep on the floor in my room again. Your choice?"

"Those are my only choices?"

"'Fraid so."

Steve thought it over. "Those cushions are way more comfortable than they look," he said with a smile and he slapped his partner lightly on the shoulder as he crossed to the stairs, taking them two at a time to the second floor.


End file.
